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THE    COMEDY   OF  HUMAN  LIFE 
By   H.  DE   BALZAC 


SCENES    FROM    PARISIAN    LIFE 


FERRAGUS,  CHIEF    OF    THE    DEVORANTS 
THE    LAST    INCARNATION    OF   VAUTRIN 


BALZAC'S     NOVELS. 

Translated  by  Miss  K.  P.  Wormeley. 

Already  Publislied: 
PERE     GORIOT. 
DUCHESSE     DE     LANGEAIS. 
RISE  AND  FALL  OF  CESAR  BIROTTEAU. 
EUGENIE     GRANDET. 
COUSIN     PONS. 
THE     COUNTRY     DOCTOR, 
THE     TWO     BROTHERS. 

THE  ALKAHEST  (La  Recherche  del'Absolu). 
MODESTE     MIGNOK. 

THE   MAGIC    SKIN  (La  Peau  de  Chagrin). 
COUSIN     BBTTE. 
LOUIS     LAMBERT. 
BUREAUCRACY  (Les  Employes). 
SERAPHITA. 

SONS    OF    THE    SOIL   (Les  Paysans). 
FAME    AND    SORROV^    (Chat-qui~pelote). 
THE    LILY    OF    THE    VALLEY, 
URSULA. 

AN    HISTORICAL    MYSTERY. 
ALBERT     SAVARUS. 
BALZAC  :    A   MEMOIR. 
PIERRETTE. 
THE    CHOUANS. 
LOST    ILLUSIONS. 
A  GREAT  MAN   OF   THE    PROVINCES  IN 

PARIS. 
THE  BROTHERHOOD  OF   CONSOLATION. 
THE    VILLAGE    RECTOR. 
MEMOIRS    OP    T'WO     YOUNG    MARRIED 

WOMEN. 
CATHERINE    DE'    MEDICI, 
LUCIEN    DE    RUBEMPRE. 

FERRAGUS,  CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS 
• 

ROBERTS    BROTHERS,    Publishers, 
BOSTON. 


hONORE    DE    BALZAQ.  .. 

TKANSLATKD     BY 

KATHARINE    PRESCOTT    WORMELEY 


FERRAGUS, 
CHIEF  OF  THE  DE'VORANTS 


THE    LAST    INCARNATION    OF 
VAUTRIN 


ROBERTS     BROTHERS 

3     SOMERSET     STREET 

BOSTON 

1895 


GIFT  OF 


/)c  "Thct 


Copyright,  1895, 
By  Roberts  Brothers. 


All  rishts  reserved. 


5Snibfr2itji  |)rcs0 : 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge,  U.S.A. 


Dl 


v^ 


jc  B/Ay 


PREFACE. 


Thirteen  men  were  banded  together  in  Paris  under 
the  Empire,  all  imbued  with  one  and  the  same  senti- 
ment, all  gifted  with  sufficient  energy  to  be  faithful  to 
the  same  thought,  with  sufficient  honor  among  them- 
selves never  to  betray  one  another  even  if  their  interests 
clashed ;  and  sufficient!}'  wily  and  politic  to  conceal 
the  sacred  ties  that  united  them,  sufficient!}'  strong 
to  maintain  themselves  above  the  law,  bold  enough 
to  undertake  all  things,  and  fortunate  enough  to  suc- 
ceed, nearly  alwa3's,  in  their  undertakings ;  having 
run  the  greatest  dangers,  but  keeping  silence  if  de- 
feated ;  inaccessible  to  fear ;  trembling  neither  before 
princes,  nor  executioners,  not  even  before  innocence  ; 
accepting  each  other  for  such  as  they  were,  without 
social  prejudices,  —  criminals  no  doubt,  but  certainly 
remarkable  througli  certain  of  the  qualities  that  make 
great  men,  and  recruiting  tlieir  number  on!}'  among 
men  of  mark.  That  nothing  might  be  lacking  to  the 
sombre  and  mj'sterious  poes}'  of  their  histor}',  tliese 
Thirteen   men  have  remained  to  this  day  unknown ; 

7962^ 


vi  Preface. 

though  all  have  realized  the  most  chimerical  ideas 
that  the  fantastic  power  falsely  attributed  to  the  Maii- 
freds,  the  Fausts,  and  the  Melmoths  can  suggest  to 
the  imagination.  To-da}-,  they  are  broken  up,  or,  at 
least,  dispersed  ;  the}'  have  peaceabl}^  put  their  necks 
once  more  under  the  yoke  of  civil  law,  just  as  Morgan, 
that  Achilles  among  pirates,  transformed  himself  from 
a  buccaneering  scourge  to  a  quiet  colonist,  and  spent, 
without  remorse,  around  his  domestic  hearth  the  mil- 
lions gathered  in  blood  by  the  lurid  light  of  flames  and 
slaughter. 

Since  the  death  of  Napoleon,  circumstances,  about 
which  the  author  must  keep  silence,  have  still  farther 
dissolved  the  original  bond  of  this  secret  societ}',  always 
extraordinar}',  sometimes  sinister,  as  though  it  lived  in 
the  blackest  pages  of  Mrs.  Radcliffe.  A  somewhat 
strange  permission  to  relate  in  his  own  way  a  few  of 
the  adventures  of  these  nien  (while  respecting  cer- 
tain susceptibilities)  has  onh'  recently  been  given  to 
him  b}'  one  of  those  anonymous  heroes  to  whom  all 
societ}'  was  once  occult!}^  subjected.  In  this  permis- 
sion the  writer  fancied  he  detected  a  vague  desire  for 
personal  celebrit}'. 

This  rnan,  apparently  still  young,  with  fair  hair  and 
blue  eyes,  whose  sweet,  clear  voice  seemed  to  denote  a 
feminine  soul,  was  pale  of  face  and  mysterious  in  man- 
ner;  he  conversed  affably,  declared  himself  not  more 


Preface.  vii 

than  forty  years  of  age,  and  apparent!}'  belonged  to 
the  very  highest  social  classes.  The.  name  which  he 
assumed  must  have  been  fictitious ;  his  person  was 
unknown  in  society.  Who  was  he?  That,  no  one 
has  ever  known. 

Perhaps  in  confiding  to  the  author  the  extraordinary 
matters  which  he  related  to  him,  this  mysterious  per- 
son may  have  wished  to  see  them  in  a  manner  repro- 
duced, and  thus  enjo}'  the  emotions  they  were  certain 
to  bring  to  the  heart  of  the  masses,  —  a  feeling  analo- 
gous to  that  of  Macpherson  when  the  name  of  his 
creation  Ossian  was  transcribed  into  all  lang-uas^es. 
That  was  certainly',  for  the  Scotch  law3'er,  one  of  tiie 
keenest,  or  at  any  rate  the  rarest,  sensations  a  man 
could  give  himself.  Is  it  not  the  incognito  of  genius? 
To  write  the  '' Itinerary  from  Paris  to  Jerusalem "  is 
to  take  a  share  in  the  human  glory  of  a  single  epoch  ; 
but  to  endow  his  native  land  with  another  Homer,  was 
not  that  usurping  the  work  of  God  ? 

The  author  knows  too  well  the  laws  of  narration  to 
be  ignorant  of  the  pledges  this  short  preface  is  con- 
tracting for  him ;  but  he  also  knows  enough  of  the 
history  of  the  Thirteen  to  be  certain  that  his  ^present 
tale  will  never  be  thought  below  the  interest  inspired 
b}'  this  programme.  Dramas  steeped  in  blood,  come- 
dies filled  with  terror,  romantic  tales  through  which 
rolled  heads  mj'steriously  decapitated,  have  been  con- 


viii  Preface. 

fided  to  him.  If  readers  were  not  surfeited  with  hor- 
rors served  up  to  tliem  of  late  in  cold  blood,  he  might 
reveal  the  calm  atrocities,  the  surpassing  tragedies  con- 
cealed under  family  life.  But  he  chooses  in  preference 
gentler  events,  —  those  where  scenes  of  purity'  succeed 
the  tempests  of  passion ;  where  woman  is  radiant  with 
virtue  and  beaut}'.  To  the  honor  of  the  Thirteen  be 
it  said  that  there  are  such  scenes  in  their  histor}',  which 
ma}'^  have  the  honor  of  being  some  da}'  published  as  a 
foil  to  tales  of  filibusters,  —  that  race  apart  from  others, 
so  curiously  energetic,  and  so  interesting  in  spite  of 
its  crimes. 

An  author  ought  to  be  above  converting  his  tale, 
when  the  tale  is  true,  into  a  species  of  surprise-game, 
and  of  taking  his  readers,  as  certain  novelists  do,  through 
many  volumes  and  from  cellar  to  cellar,  to  show  them 
the  dry  bones  of  a  dead  body,  and  tell  them,  by  way  of 
conclusion,  that  that  is  what  has  frightened  them  be- 
hind doors,  hidden  in  the  arras,  or  in  cellars  where  the 
dead  man  was  buried  and  forgotten.  In  spite  of  his 
aversion  for  prefaces,  the  author  feels  bound  to  place 
the  following  statement  at  the  head  of  this  narrative. 
Ferragus  is  a  first  episode  which  clings  by  invisible 
links  to  the  "History  of  the  Thirteen,"  whose  power, 
naturally  acquired,  can  alone  explain  certain  acts  and 
agencies  which  would  otherwise  seem  supernatural. 
Although  it  is  permissible  in  tellers  of  tales  to  have 


Preface.  ix 

a  sort  of  literary  coqiietr}^  in  becoming  historians, 
thc}^  ought  to  renounce  the  benefit  that  may  accrue 
from  an  odd  or  fantastic  title  —  on  which  certain  slight 
successes  have  been  won  in  the  present  da}'.  Conse- 
quently, the  author  will  now  explain,  succinctly,  the 
reasons  that  oblige  him  to  select  a  title  to  his  book 
which  seems  at  first  sight  unnatural. 

Ferragus  is,  according  to  ancient  custom,  a  name 
taken  b}'  the  chief  or  Grand  Master  of  the  Devorants. 
On  the  day  of  their  election  these  chiefs  continue 
whichever  of  the  dynasties  of  their  Order  they  are  most 
in  sympatlu'  with,  precisely  as  the  Popes  do,  on  their 
accession,  in  connection  with  pontifical  dynasties.  Thus 
the  Devorants  have  "  Trempe-la-Soupe  IX.,*'  "Ferra- 
gus XXIL,"  "Tutanus  XIII.,"  "  Masche-Fer  IV.," 
just  as  the  Church  has  Clement  XIV.,  Gregory  VII., 
Julius  II.,  Alexander  VL,  etc. 

Now,  then,  who  are  the  Devorants?  "  Devorant"  is 
the  name  of  one  of  those  tribes  of  "  Companions  "  that 
issued  in  ancient  times  from  the  great  mystical  associ- 
ation formed  among  the  workers  for  Christianity  to 
rebuild  the  temple  at  Jerusalem.  Companionism  (to 
coin  a  word)  still  exists  in  France  among  the  people. 
Its  traditions,  powerful  over  minds  that  are  not 
enlightened,  and  over  men  not  educated  enough  to 
cast  aside  an  oath,  might  serve  the  ends  of  formidable 
enterprises  if   some  rough-hewn  genius  were  to  seize 


X  Preface. 

bold  of  these  diverse  associations.  All  the  instruments 
of  this  Companionism  are  well-nigh  blind.  From  town 
to  town  there  has  existed  from  time  immemorial,  for 
the  use  of  Companions,  an  '^Obade,"  —  a  sort  of  halt- 
ing-place, kept  b}^  a  "  Mother,"  an  old  woman,  half- 
g3'ps3',  with  nothing  to  lose,  knowing  everything  that 
happens  in  her  neighborhood,  and  devoted,  either  from 
fear  or  habit,  to  the  tribe,  whose  straggling  members 
she  feeds  and  lodges.  This  poople,  ever  moving  and 
changing,  though  controlled  by  immutable  customs,  has 
its  e3'es  everywhere,  executes,  without  judging  it,  a 
Will,  —  for  the  oldest  Companion  still  belongs  to  an 
era  when  men  had  faith.  Moreover,  the  whole  bodj' 
profess  doctrines  that  are  sufficiently  true  and  suffi- 
ciently mj-sterious  to  electrify  into  a  sort  of  tribal  I03'- 
alty  all  adepts  whenever  they  obtain  even  a  slight  de- 
velopment. The  attachment  of  the  Companions  to 
their  laws  is  so  passionate  that  the  diverse  tribes  will 
fight  sanguinary  battles  with  each  other  in  defence  of 
some  question  of  principle. 

Happily  for  our  present  public  safet}',  when  a  Devo- 
rant  is  ambitious,  he  builds  houses,  lays  b}'  his  mone}', 
and  leaves  the  Order.  There  is  man}-  a  curious  thing 
to  tell  about  the  "  Compagnons  du  Devoir  "  [Compan- 
ions of  the  Dut}'],  the  rivals  of  the  Devorants,  and 
about  the  different  sects  of  working-men,  their  usages, 
their  fraternit}',  and  the  bond  existing  between  them 


Preface.  xi 

and  the  free-masons.  But  such  details  would  be  out 
of  place  here.  The  author  must,  however,  add  that 
under  the  old  monarch}'  it  was  not  an  unknown  thing 
to  find  a  "  Trempe-la-Soupe "  enslaved  to  the  king 
sentenced  for  a  hundred  and  one  years  to  the  galleys, 
but  ruling  his  tribe  from  there,  religiousl}'  consulted  by 
it,  and,  when  he  escaped  from  his  galle}',  certain  of  help, 
succor,  and  respect,  wherever  he  might  be.  To  see  its 
grandmaster  at  the  galleys  is,  to  the  faithful  tribe,  only 
one  of  those  misfortunes  for  which  Providence  is  re- 
sponsible, and  which  does  not  release  the  Devorants 
from  obeying  a  power  created  b}'  them  to  be  above 
them.  It  is  but  the  passing  exile  of  their  legitimate 
king,  always  a  king  for  them.  Thus  we  see  the  roman- 
tic prestige  attaching  to  the  name  of  Ferragus  and  to 
that  of  the  Devorants  completelj'  dissipated. 

As  for  the  Thirteen,  they  were  all  men  of  the  stamp 
of  Trelawne}^  Lord  Byron's  friend,  who  was,  they  say, 
the  original  of  his  "  Corsair."  They  were  all  fatalists, 
men  of  nerve  and  poesy,  wear}'  of  leading  flat  and 
empty  lives,  driven  toward  Asiatic  enjo3'ments  by 
forces  all  the  more  excessive  because,  long  dormant, 
the}'  awoke  furious.  One  of  them,  after  re-reading 
"  Venice  Preserved,"  and  admiring  the  sublime  union 
of  Pierre  and  JafRer,  began  to  reflect  on  the  virtues 
shown  by  men  who  are  outlawed  by  society,  on  the 
honest}-   of  galley-slaves,    the   faithfulness   of  thieves 


xii  Preface. 

among  each  other,  the  privileges  of  exorbitant  power 
which  such  men  know  how  to  win  by  concentrating  all 
ideas  into  a  single  will.  He  saw  that  Man  is  greater 
than  men.  He  concluded  that  societ}'  ought  to  belong 
wholly  to  those  distinguished  beings  who,  to  natural 
intelligence,  acquired  wisdom,  and  fortune,  add  a 
fanaticism  hot  enough  to  fuse  into  one  casting  these 
different  forces.  That  done,  their  occult  power,  vast  in 
action  and  in  intensit}',  against  which  the  social  order 
would  be  helpless,  would  cast  down  all  obstacles,  blast 
all  other  wills,  and  give  to  each  the  devilish  power  of 
all.  This  world  apart  within  the  world,  hostile  to  the 
world,  admitting  none  of  the  world's  ideas,  not  recog- 
nizing any  law,  not  submitting  to  any  conscience  but 
that  of  necessit}',  obedient  to  a  devotion  onl}',  acting 
with  every  facult}'  for  a  single  associate  when  one  of 
their  number  asked  for  the  assistance  of  all,  —  this  life 
of  filibusters  in  lemon  kid  gloves  and  cabriolets ;  this 
intimate  union  of  superior  beings,  cold  and  sarcastic, 
smiling  and  cursing  in  the  midst  of  a  false  and  puerile 
societ}^ ;  this  certaintj'  of  forcing  all  things  to  serve  an 
end,  of  plotting  a  vengeance  that  could  not  fail  of  liv- 
ing in  thirteen  hearts  ;  this  happiness  of  nurturing  a 
secret  hatred  in  the  face  of  men,  and  of  being  always 
in  arms  against  them  ;  this  ability  to  withdraw  to  the 
sanctuary  of  self  with  one  idea  more  than  even  the 
most   remarkable  of  men  could   have,  —  this   religion 


Preface.  xiii 

of  pleasure  and  egotism  cast  so  strong  a  spell  over 
Thirteen  men  that  the}'  revived  the  society  of  Jesuits 
to  the  profit  of  the  devil. 

It  was  horrible  and  stupendous ;  but  the  compact 
was  made,  and  it  lasted  precisely  because  it  appeared 
to  be  so  impossible. 

There    was,    therefore,    in    Paris   a   brotherhood   of 

Thirteen,    who    belonged   to   each    other    absolutel}', 

but  ignored  themselves  as  absolutel}'  before  the  world. 

At  night  the}'  met,  lil^e  conspirators,  hiding  no  thought, 

disposing  each  and  all  of  a  common  fortune,  like  that 

of  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain  ;  having  their  feet  in 

all  salons,  their  hands  in  all  money-boxes,  their  elbows 

in  the  streets,  their  heads  on  many  pillows,  and  making 

all  things  serve  their  purpose  or  their  fancy  without 

scruple.     No  chief  commanded  them  ;  no  one  member 

could  arrogate  to  himself  that  power.     The  most  eager 

passion,  the  most  exacting  circumstance,  alone  had  the 

right  to  pass  first.    They  were  Thirteen  unknown  kings, 

—  but  true  kings,  more  than  ordinary  kings  and  judges 

and  executioners,  —  men  who,  having  made  themselves 

wings  to  roam  through  society  from  deptli  to  height, 

disdained  to  be  anything  in  the  social  sphere  because 

they  could  be  all.     If  the   present  writer  ever  learns 

the  reasons  of  their  abdication  of  this  power,  he  will 

take  occasion  to  tell  them.^ 

1  See  Theophile  Gautier's  account  of  the  society  of  the  "  Cheval 
Rouge."     Memoir  of  Balzac.     Roberts  Brothers,  Boston 


xiv  Preface. 

Now,  with  this  brief  explanation,  he  may  be  allowed 
to  begin  the  tale  of  certain  episodes  in  the  history-  of 
the  Thirteen,  which  have  more  particularly  attracted 
him  by  the  Parisian  flavor  of  their  details  and  the 
whimsicality  of  their  contrasts. 


CONTENTS. 


FERRAGUS,  CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS. 

PAGE 

I.  Madame  Jules 1 

II.     Ferragus 34 

III.  The  Wife  Accused 66 

IV.  Where  go  to  Die? 105 

V.     Conclusion 155 

THE  LAST  INCARNATION  OF  VAUTRIN. 

I.     The  Two  Gowns,  Legal  and  Feminine     .  185 

II.  The   Man  in  Solitary  Confinement  and 

in  the  Solitude  of  his  Soul  ....  201 

III.  The  Pr^au  of  the  Conciergerie,  with  an 

Essay  Philosophic,  Linguistic,  and  Lit- 
erary, on  Thieves'  Latin  and  Thieves  222 

IV.  His  Majesty  the  Dab 239 

V.     The  Condemned  Cell 264 

VI.     Mademoiselle  Collin  appears   upon  the 

Scene 289 

VII.     Madame  Camusot  pays  Three  Visits  .     .  306 

VIII.     The  Sufferings  of  an  Attorney-General  329 


xvi  Contents. 

PAGE 

IX.     Crime  and  Justice  Tete  A  Tete      .     .     ,  343 
X.     In  which  Jacques   Collin    prepares    for 

HIS  Debut  as  a  Comedian 359 

XI.     Messieurs  les  Anglais,  fire  first!      .     .  373 
XII.     Jacques  Collin   abdicates   the   Royalty 

of   Dab 386 


FERRAGUS, 

CHIEF    OF    THE    DEVORANTS. 


TO   HECTOR   BERLIOZ. 


I. 

MADAME    JULES. 

Certain  streets  in  Paris  are  as  degraded  as  a  man 
covered  witli  infamy ;  also,  there  are  noble  streets, 
streets  simply  respectable,  young  streets  on  the  mor- 
ality of  which  the  public  has  not  yet  formed  an  opinion  ; 
also  cut-throat  streets,  streets  older  than  the  age  of 
the  oldest  dowagers,  estimable  streets,  streets  alwa3^s 
clean,  streets  always  dirt}'^,  working,  laboring,  and 
mercantile  streets.  In  short,  the  streets  of  Paris  have 
every  human  quality,  and  impress  us,  b}^  what  we  must 
call  their  ph3'siognom3',  with  certain  ideas  against  which 
we  are  defenceless.  There  are,  for  instance,  streets  of 
a  bad  neighborhood  in  which  3'ou  could  not  be  induced 
to  live,  and  streets  where  you  would  willingly'  take  up 
your  abode.     Some  streets,  like  the  rue  Montmartre, 

1 


"         <M  «    « 


'2  Fe?^ragus. 

have  a  charming  head,  and  end  in  a  fish's  tail.  The 
rne  de  la  Paix  is  a  wide  street,  a  fine  street,  j-et  it 
wakens  none  of  those  gracefull}'  noble  thoughts  which 
come  to  an  impressible  mind  in  the  middle  of  the  rue 
Ro3^ale,  and  it  certainh'  lacks  the  majest}^  which  reigns 
in  the  Place  Vendome. 

If  3'oa  walk  the  streets  of  the  lie  Saint-Louis,  do  not 
seek  the  reason  of  the  nervous  sadness  that  lays  hold 
npon  you  save  in  the  solitude  of  the  spot,  the  gloom}' 
look  of  the  houses,  and  the  great  deserted  mansions. 
This  island,  the  ghost  of  ferTniers-generaux,  is  the 
Venice  of  Paris.  The  Place  de  la  Bourse  is  voluble, 
bus}^  degraded  ;  it  is  never  fine  except  b}'  moonlight 
at  two  in  the  morning.  By  da}'  it  is  Paris  epitomized  ; 
by  night  it  is  a  dream  of  Greece.  The  rue  Traversiere- 
Saint-Honore  —  is  not  that  a  villanous  street?  Look 
at  the  wretched  little  houses  with  two  windows  on  a 
floor,  where  vice,  and  crime,  and  miser}'  abound.  The 
narrow  streets  exposed  to  the  north,  where  the  sun 
never  comes  more  than  three  or  four  times  a  3'ear,  are 
the  cut-throat  streets  which  murder  with  impunit}' ;  the 
authorities  of  the  present  day  do  not  meddle  with 
them  ;  but  in  former  times  the  Parliament  might  per- 
haps have  summoned  the  lieutenant  of  police  and 
reprimanded  him  for  the  state  of  things  ;  and  it  would, 
at  least,  have  issued  some  decree  against  Ruch  streets, 
as  it  once  did  against  the  wigs  of  the  Chapter  of  Beau- 


Ferr  agios.  3 

vais.  And  yet  Monsieur  Benoiston  de  Cliateauneuf 
has  proved  that  the  mortaUty  of  these  streets  is  double 
that  of  others !  To  sum  up  such  theories  by  a  single 
example :  is  not  the  rue  Fromentin  both  murderous 
and  profligate  ! 

These  observations,  incomprehensible  out  of  Paris, 
will  doubtless  be  understood  by  musing  men  of  thought 
andpoes}'  and  pleasure,  who  know,  while  rambling  about 
Paris,  how  to  harvest  the  mass  of  floating  interests 
which  may  be  gathered  at  all  hours  within  her  walls ; 
to  them  Paris  is  the  most  delightful  and  varied  of 
monsters :  here,  a  pretty-  woman ;  farther  on,  a  hag- 
gard pauper  ;  here,  new  as  the  coinage  of  a  new  reign  ; 
there,  in  this  corner,  elegant  as  a  fashionable  woman. 
A  monster,  moreover,  complete !  Its  garrets,  as  it 
were,  a  head  full  of  knowledge  and  genius ;  its  first 
stories  stomachs  repleted ;  its  shops,  actual  feet,  where 
the  busy  ambulating  crowds  are  moving.  Ah !  what 
an  ever-active  life  the  monster  leads  !  Hardlj'  has  the 
last  vibration  of  the  last  carriage  coming  from  a  ball 
ceased  at  its  heart  before  its  arms  are  moving  at  the 
barriers  and  it  shakes  itself  slowly  into  motion.  Doors 
open  ;  turning  on  their  hinges  like  the  membrane  of 
some  huge  lobster,  invisibly  manipulated  by  thirty 
thousand  men  or  women,  of  whom  each  individual 
occupies  a  space  of  six  square  feet,  but  has  a  kitchen, 
a  workshop,  a  bed,  children,  a  garden,  little  light  to 


4  Ferragus. 

see  b}^,  but  must  see  all.  Imperceptibl}',  the  articula- 
tions begin  to  crack  ;  motion  communicates  itself;  the 
street  speaks.  By  mid-day,  all  is  alive  ;  the  chimne3's 
smoke,  the  monster  eats  ;  then  he  roars,  and  his  thou- 
sand paws  begin  to  ramp.  Splendid  spectacle  !  But, 
O  Paris  !  he  who  has  not  admired  your  gloomy  pas- 
sages, your  gleams  and  flashes  of  light,  your  deep  and 
silent  cul-de-sacs^  who  has  not  listened  to  3'our  murmur- 
ings  between  midnight  and  two  in  the  morning,  knows 
nothing  as  yet  of  3'Our  true  poesj^,  nor  of  your  broad 
and  fantastic  contrasts. 

There  are  a  few  amateurs  who  never  go  their  way 
heedlessl}' ;  w^ho  savor  their  Paris,  so  to  speak ;  who 
know  its  physiognomy  so  well  that  they  see  everj'  wart, 
and  pimple,  and  redness.  To  others,  Paris  is  alwa3's 
that  monstrous  marvel,  that  amazing  assemblage  of 
activities,  of  schemes,  of  thoughts ;  the  cit3'  of  a  hun- 
dred thousand  tales,  the  head  of  the  universe.  But  to 
those  few,  Paris  is  sad  or  gay,  ugl3^  or  beautiful,  living 
or  dead  ;  to  them  Paris  is  a  creature  ;  every  man,  ever3^ 
fraction  of  a  house  is  a  lobe  of  the  cellular  tissue  of 
that  great  courtesan  whose  head  and  heart  and  fantas- 
tic customs  the3"  know  so  well.  These  men  are  lovers 
of  Paris  ;  the3'  lift  their  noses  at  such  or  such  a  corner 
of  a  street,  certain  that  the3^  can  see  the  face  of  a  clock  ; 
the3'  tell  a  friend  whose  tobacco-poucii  is  empt3',  "Go 
down   that   passage  and   turn   to  the  left ;    there 's  a 


Ferragus.  5 

tobacconist  next  door  to  a  confectioner,  where  there's 
a  pretty  girl."  Rambling  about  Paris  is,  to  these 
poets,  a  costly  luxur}-.  How  can  they  help  spending 
precious  minutes  before  the  dramas,  disasters,  faces, 
and  picturesque  events  which  meet  us  everywhere  amid 
this  heaving  queen  of  cities,  clothed  in  posters,  —  who 
has,  nevertheless,  not  a  single  clean  corner,  so  complj'ing 
is  she  to  the  vices  of  the  French  nation  !  Who  has  not 
chanced  to  leave  his  home  early  in  the  morning,  intend- 
ing to  go  to  some  extremity  of  Paris,  and  found  himself 
unable  to  get  awa}'  from  the  centre  of  it  by  the  dinner- 
hour?  Such  a  man  will  know  how  to  excuse  this  vaga- 
bondizing start  upon  our  tale  ;  which,  however,  we  here 
sum  up  in  an  observation  both  useful  and  novel,  as  far 
as  any  observation  can  be  novel  in  Paris,  where  there 
is  nothing  new,  —  not  even  the  statue  erected  j'esterday, 
on  which  some  3'oung  gamin  has  already  scribbled  his 
name. 

Well,  then  !  there  are  streets,  or  ends  of  streets, 
there  are  houses,  unknown  for  the  most  part  to  persons 
of  social  distinction,  to  which  a  woman  of  that  class 
cannot  go  without  causing  cruel  and  ver}'  wounding 
things  to  be  thought  of  her.  Whether  the  woman  be 
rich  and  has  a  carriage,  whether  she  is  on  foot,  or  is 
disguised,  if  she  enters  one  of  these  Parisian  defiles  at 
any  hour  of  the  day,  she  compromises  her  reputation 
as  a  virtuous  woman.     If,  by  chance,  she  is  there  at 


6  Ferragus. 

nine  in  the  evening  the  conjectures  that  an  observer 
permits  himself  to  make  npon  her  ma}'  prove  fearful  in 
their  consequences.  But  if  the  woman  is  3'oung  and 
prett}',  if  she  enters  a  house  in  one  of  those  streets,  if 
the  house  has  a  long,  dark,  damp,  and  evil-smelling 
passage-wa}',  at  the  end  of  which  flickers  the  pallid 
gleam  of  an  oil  lamp,  and  if  beneath  that  gleam  appears 
the  horrid  face  of  a  withered  old  woman  with  fleshless 
fingers,  ah,  then !  and  we  sa}'  it  in  the  interests  of 
young  and  pretty  women,  that  woman  is  lost.  She  is 
at  the  mere}'  of  the  first  man  of  her  acquaintance  who 
sees  her  in  that  Parisian  slough.  There  is  more  than 
one  street  in  Paris  where  such  a  meeting  maj'  lead  to 
a  frightful  drama,  a  blood}'  drama  of  death  and  love, 
a  drama  of  the  modern  school. 

Unhappil}',  this  scene,  like  modern  drama  itself,  will 
be  comprehended  b}'  only  a  small  number  of  persons  ; 
and  it  is  a  pit}'  to  tell  the  tale  to  a  public  which  can- 
not enter  into  its  local  merit.  But  who  can  flatter 
himself  that  he  will  ever  be  understood  ?  We  all  die 
unknown  —  't  is  the  saying  of  women  and  of  authors. 

At  half-past  eight  o'clock  one  evening,  in  the  rue 
Pagevin,  in  the  days  when  that  street  had  no  wall 
which  did  not  echo  some  infamous  word,  and  was,  in 
the  direction  of  the  rue  Soly,  the  narrowest  and  most 
impassable  street  in  Paris  (not  excepting  the  least 
frequented  corner  of  the  most  deserted  street) ,  —  at  the 


Ferragus.  7 

beginning  of  the  month  of  February  about  thirteen  years 
ago,  a  young  man,  b}'  one  of  those  chances  which  come 
but  once  in  life,  turned  the  corner  of  the  rue  Pagevin 
to  enter  the  rue  des  Vieux-Augustins,  close  to  the  rue 
Sol}'.  There,  this  young  man,  who  lived  himself  in 
the  rue  de  Bourbon,  saw  in  a  woman  near  whom  he 
had  been  unconscioush'  walking,  a  vague  resemblance 
to  the  prettiest  woman  in  Paris ;  a  chaste  and  delight- 
ful person,  with  whom  he  was  secretly  and  passionately 
in  love,  —  a  love  without  hope;  she  was  married.  lu 
a  moment  his  heart  leaped,  an  intolerable  heat  surged 
from  his  centre  and  flowed  through  all  his  veins ;  his 
back  turned  cold,  the  skin  of  his  head  crept.  He 
loved,  he  was  young,  he  knew  Paris ;  and  his  knowl- 
edge did  not  permit  him  to  be  ignorant  of  all  there 
was  of  possible  infam}'  in  an  elegant,  rich,  3'oung,  and 
beautiful  woman  walking  there,  alone,  with  a  furtively 
criminal  step.     She  in  that  mud  !  at  that  hour ! 

The  love  that  this  young  man  felt  for  that  woman 
may  seem  romantic,  and  all  the  more  so  because  he 
was  an  officer  in  the  Royal  Guard.  If  he  had  been 
in  the  infantry,  the  affair  might  have  seemed  more 
likely ;  but,  as  an  officer  of  rank  in  the  cavahy,  he 
belonged  to  that  French  arm  which  demands  rapidity 
in  its  conquests  and  derives  as  much  vanit}'  from  its 
amorous  exploits  as  from  its  dashing  uniform.  But 
the  passion  of  this  officer  was  a  true  love,  and  many 


8  Ferragus. 

3'oung  hearts  will  think  it  noble.  He  loved  this  woman 
because  she  was  virtuous ;  he  loved  her  virtue,  her 
modest  grace,  ber  imposing  saintliness,  as  the  dearest 
treasures  of  his  hidden  passion.  This  woman  was 
indeed  worthy  to  inspire  one  of  those  platonic  loves 
which  are  found,  like  flowers  amid  blood}'  ruins,  in  the 
history  of  the  middle-ages  ;  worthy  to  be  the  hidden 
principle  of  all  the  actions  of  a  young  man's  life  ;  a  love 
as  high,  as  pure  as  the  skies  when  blue  ;  a  love  without 
hope  and  to  which  men  bind  themselves  because  it  can 
never  deceive  ;  a  love  that  is  prodigal  of  unchecked 
enjoyment,  especially  at  an  age  when  the  heart  is 
ardent,  the  imagination  keen,  and  the  ej'es  of  a  man 
see  ver}^  clearly. 

Strange,  weird,  inconceivable  effects  ma}'  be  met 
with  at  night  in  Paris.  Onh*  those  who  have  amused 
themselves  by  watching  those  effects  have  anj-  idea 
how  fantastic  a  woman  ma}'  appear  there  at  dusk.  At 
times  the  creature  whom  you  are  following,  by  accident 
or  design,  seems  to  you  light  and  slender ;  the  stock- 
ings, if  they  are  white,  make  you  fancy  that  the  legs 
must  be  slim  and  elegant ;  the  figure  though  wrapped 
in  a  shawl,  or  concealed  by  a  pelisse,  defines  itself 
gracefully  and  seductively  among  the  shadows  ;  anon, 
the  uncertain  gleam  thrown  from  a  shop-window  or  a 
street  lamp  bestows  a  fleeting  lustre,  nearly  always 
deceptive,  on  the  unknown  woman,  and  fires  the  imag- 


Ferragics.  9 

ination,  carrying  it  far  be3'oncl  the  truth.  The  senses 
then  bestir  themselves ;  ever3'thing  takes  color  and 
animation  ;  the  woman  appears  in  an  altogether  novel 
aspect;  her  person  becomes  beautiful.  Behold!  she  is 
not  a  woman,  she  is  a  demon,  a  siren,  who  is  drawing 
3'ou  by  magnetic  attraction  to  some  respectable  house, 
where  the  worthy  bourgeotse,  frightened  b}'  3'our 
threatening  step  and  the  clack  of  your  boots,  shuts 
the  door  in  your  face  without  looking  at  you. 

A  vacillating  gleam,  thrown  from  the  shop-window 
of  a  shoemaker,  suddenlj'  illuminated  from  the  waist 
down  the  figure  of  the  woman  who  was  before  the 
young  man.  Ah!  surel3',  she  alone  had  that  swaying 
figure  ;  she  alone  knew  the  secret  of  that  chaste  gait 
which  innocentl3'  set  into  relief  the  man3^  beauties  of 
that  attractive  form.  Yes,  that  was  the  shawl,  and 
that  the  velvet  bonnet  which  she  wore  in  the  mornings. 
On  her  gra3'  silk  stockings  not  a  spot,  on  her  shoes 
not  a  splash.  The  shawl  held  tighth'  round  the  bust 
disclosed,  vaguely,  its  charming  lines ;  and  the  3'oung 
man,  who  had  often  seen  those  shoulders  at  a  ball, 
knew  well  the  treasures  that  the  shawl  concealed.  B3^ 
the  wa3^  a"  Parisian  woman  wraps  a  shawl  around  her, 
and  the  way  she  lifts  her  feet  in  the  street,  a  man  of 
intelligence  in  such  studies  can  divine  the  secret  of 
her  mysterious  errand.  There  is  something,  I  know 
not  what,  of  quivering  buoyanc3'  in  the  person,  in  the 


10  Ferragus. 

gait ;  the  woman  seems  to  weigh  less ;  she  steps,  or 
rather,  she  glides  like  a  star,  and  floats  onward  led  by 
a  thought  which  exhales  from  the  folds  and  motion  of 
her  dress.  The  young  man  hastened  his  step,  passed 
the  woman,  and  then  turned  back  to  look  at  her.  Pst! 
she  had  disappeared  into  a  passage-wa}',  the  grated 
door  of  which  and  its  bell  still  rattled  and  sounded. 
The  3'oung  man  walked  back  to  the  alle}'  and  saw  the 
woman  reach  the  farther  end,  where  she  began  to 
mount  —  not  without  receiving  the  obsequious  bow  of 
an  old  portress  —  a  winding  staircase,  the  lower  steps 
of  which  were  strongly  lighted  ;  she  went  up  buoj'- 
antl}',  eagerl}',  as  though  impatient. 

"  Impatient  for  what?  "  said  the  young  man  to  him- 
self, drawing  back  to  lean  against  a  wooden  railing  on 
the  other  side  of  the  street.  He  gazed,  unhappy  man, 
at  the  different  store3's  of  the  house,  with  the  keen 
attention  of  a  detective  searching  for  a  conspirator. 

It  was  one  of  those  houses  of  which  there  are  thou- . 
sands  in  Paris,  ignoble,  vulgar,  narrow,  3'ellowisli  in 
tone,  with  four  store3's  and  three  windows  on  each 
floor.  The  outer  blinds  of  the  first  floor  were  closed. 
Where  was  she  going?  The  young  man  fancied  he 
heard  the  tinkle  of  a  bell  on  the  second  floor.  As  if 
in  answer  to  it,  a  light  began  to  move  in  a  room  with 
two  windows  stronglj'  illuminated,  which  presenth'  lit 
up  the   third  window,  evidcntlv  that  of  a  first  room. 


Ferragus.  11 

either  the  salon  or  the  dining- room  of  the  apartment. 
Instantly  the  outline  of  a  woman's  bonnet  showed 
vaguel}'  on  the  window,  and  a  door  between  the  two 
rooms  must  have  closed,  for  the  first  was  dark  again, 
while  the  two  other  windows  resumed  their  ruddy 
glow.  At  this  moment  a  voice  said,  "Hi,  there!" 
and  the  young  man  was  conscious  of  a  blow  on  his 
shoulder. 

"  Wh}'  don't  you  pay  attention?"  said  the  rough 
voice  of  a  workman,  carrying  a  plank  on  his  shoulder. 
The  man  passed  on.  He  was  the  voice  of  Providence 
saying  to  the  watcher :  "  What  are  you  meddling  with? 
Think  of  your  own  duty;  and  leave  these  Parisians  to 
their  own  affairs." 

The  young  man  crossed  his  arms ;  then,  as  no  one 
beheld  him,  he  suffered  tears  of  rage  to  flow  down  his 
cheeks  unchecked.  At  last  the  sight  of  the  shadows 
moving  behind  the  lighted  windows  gave  him  such 
pain  that  he  looked  elsewhere  and  noticed  a  hackne}'- 
coach,  standing  against  a  wall  in  the  upper  part  of 
the  rue  des  Vieux-Augustins,  at  a  place  where  there 
was  neither  the  door  of  a  house,  nor  the  light  of  a 
shop-window. 

Was  it  she?  Was  it  not  she?  Life  or  death  to  a 
lover !  This  lover  waited.  He  stood  there  during  a 
century'  of  twentj'  minutes.  After  that  the  woman 
came   down,  and  he   then  recognized  her  as  the  one 


12  Ferragus. 

whom  he  secretly  loved.  Nevertheless,  he  wanted 
still  to  doubt.  She  went  to  the  hackney-coach  and 
got  into  it. 

"  The  house  will  alvva3's  be  there  and  I  can  search  it 
later,"  thought  the  .young  man,  following  the  carriage 
at  a  run,  to  solve  his  last  doubts  ;  and  soon  he  did  so. 

The  coach  stopped  in  the  rue  de  Eichelieu  before  a 
shop  for  artificial  flowers,  close  to  the  rue  de  Menars. 
The  lady  got  out,  entered  the  shop,  sent  out  the 
money  to  pay  the  coachman,  and  presently  left  the 
shop  herself,  on  foot,  after  buying  a  bunch  of  mara- 
bouts. Marabouts  for  her  black  hair !  The  officer 
beheld  her,  through  the  window-panes,  placing  the 
feathers  to  her  head  to  see  the  effect,  and  he  fancied 
he  could  hear  the  conversation  between  herself  and 
the  shop-woman. 

'•  Oh!  madame,  nothing  is  more  suitable  for  bru- 
nettes :  brunettes  have  something  a  little  too  strongly 
marked  in  their  lines,  and  marabouts  give  them  just 
that  flow  which  the}'  lack.  Madame  la  Duchesse  de 
Langeais  says  they  give  a  woman  something  vague, 
Ossianic,  and  very  high-bred." 

"  Very  good ;  send  them  to  me  at  once." 

Then  the  lad}'  turned  quickl}-  toward  the  rue  de 
Menars,  and  entered  her  own  house.  When  the  door 
closed  on  her,  tlie  young  lover,  having  lost  his  hopes, 
and    worse,    far    worse,    his    dearest    beliefs,    w^alked 


Ferragus.  13 

through  the  streets  like  a  drunken  man,  and  presentl}' 
found  himself  in  his  own  room  without  knowing  how 
he  came  there.  He  flung  himself  into  an  arm-chair, 
put  his  head  in  his  hands  and  his  feet  on  the  andirons, 
drying  his  boots  until  he  burned  them.  It  was  an  awful 
moment,  —  one  of  those  moments  in  human  life  when 
the  character  is  moulded,  and  the  future  conduct  of  the 
best  of  men  depends  on  the  good  or  evil  fortune  of  his 
first  action.  Providence  or  fatalit}'?  —  choose  which 
you  will. 

This  3'ouri^  man  belonged  to  a  good  famih',  whose 
nobilit}'  was  not  very  ancient ;  but  there  are  so  few 
really'  old  families  in  these  da3's,  that  all  men  of  rank 
are  ancient  without  dispute.  His  grandfather  had 
bought  the  office  of  counsellor  to  the  Parliament  of 
Paris,  where  he  afterwards  became  president.  His 
sons,  each  provided  with  a  handsome  fortune,  entered 
the  army,  and  through  their  marriages  became  attached 
to  the  court.  The  Revolution  swept  the  famil}^  away  ; 
but  one  old  dowager,  too  obstinate  to  emigrate,  was 
left;  she  w^as  put  in  prison,  threatened  with  death, 
but  was  saved  b}"  the  9th  Thermidor  and  recovered 
her  property.  When  the  proper  time  came,  about 
the  year  1804,  she  recalled  her  grandson  to  France. 
Auguste  de  Maulincourj  the  only  scion  of  the  Carbon- 
non  de  Maulincour,  was  brought  up  b}^  the  good  dow- 
ager with  the  triple  care  of  a  mother,  a  woman  of  rank, 


14  ^  Ferrag^is. 

and  an  obstinate  dowager.  When  the  Restoration 
came,  the  yonng  man,  then  eighteen  3'ears  of  age, 
entered  the  Maison-Rouge,  followed  the  princes  to 
Ghent,  was  made  an  officer  in  the  bod3'-gnard,  left  it 
to  serve  in  the  line,  bnt  was  recalled  later  to  the  Royal 
Guard,  where,  at  twentj^-three  j^ears  of  age,  he  found 
himself  major  of  a  cavahy  regiment,  — a  splendid  posi- 
tion, due  to  his  grandmother,  who  had  played  her  cards 
well  to  obtain  it,  in  spite  of  his  youth.  This  double 
biograph}'  is  a  compendium  of  the  general  and  special 
history,  barring  variations,  of  all  the  noble  families 
who  emigrated  having  debts  and  property,  dowagers 
and  tact. 

Madame  la  Baronne  de  Maulincour  had  a  friend  in 
the  old  Vidame  de  Pamiers,  formerly  a  commander  of 
the  Knights  of  Malta.  This  was  one  of  those  undying 
friendships  founded  on  sexagenary  ties  which  nothing 
can  weaken,  because  at  the  bottom  of  such  intimacies 
there  are  certain  secrets  of  the  human  heart,  delightful 
to  guess  at  when  we  have  the  time,  insipid  to  explain 
in  twenty  words,  and  which  might  make  the  text  of  a 
work  in  four  volumes  as  amusing  as  the  Doyen  de 
Killerine,  —  a  work  about  which  3'oung  men  talk  and 
judge  without  having  read  it. 

Auguste  de  Maulincour  belonged  tlierefore  to  the 
faubourg  Saint-Germain  through  his  grandmother  and 
the  vidame,  and  it  sufficed  him  to  date  back  two  cen- 


Ferragus.  15 

tiiries  to  take  the  tone  and  opinions  of  those  who 
assume  to  go  back  to  Clovis.  This  young  man,  pale, 
slender,  and  delicate  in  appearance,  a  man  of  honor 
and  true  couraeje,  who  would  fight  a  duel  for  a  yes  or 
a  no,  had  never  yet  fought  upon  a  battle-field,  though 
he  wore  in  his  button-hole  the  cross  of  the  Legion  of 
honor.  He  was,  as  3'ou  perceive,  one  of  the  blunders 
of  the  Restoration,  perhaps  the  most  excusable  of 
them.  The  3'outh  of  those  da^^s  was  the  youth  of  no 
epoch.  It  came  between  the  memories  of  the  Empire 
and  those  of  the  Emigration,  between  the  old  traditions 
of  the  court  and  the  conscientious  education  of  the 
bourgeoisie;  between  religion  and  fanc3^-balls ;  be- 
tween two  political  faiths,  between  Louis  XVIII.,  who 
saw  onl3^  the  present,  and  Charles  X.  who  looked  too 
far  into  the  future  ;  it  was  moreover  bound  to  accept 
the  will  of  the  king,  though  the  king  was  deceiving  and 
tricking  it.  This  unfortunate  3'Outh,  unstable  in  all 
things,  blind  and  yet  clear-sighted,  was  counted  as 
nothing  b3^  old  men  jealously  keeping  the  reins  of  the 
State  in  their  feeble  hands,  while  the  monarch3'  could 
have  been  saved  by  their  retirement  and  the  accession 
of  this  Young  France,  which  the  old  doctrinaires,  the 
etnigres  of  the  Restoration,  still  speak  of  slightingly-. 
Auguste  de  Maulincour  was  a  victim  to  the  ideas  which 
weighed  in  tliose  days  upon  French  youth,  and  we  must 
here  explain  wh3'. 


1 6  Ferragus. 

The  Vidame  de  Pamiers  was  still,  at  sixty-seven 
years  of  age,  a  very  brilliant  man,  having  seen  much 
and  lived  much  ;  a  good  talker,  a  man  of  honor  and  a 
gallant  man,  but  who  held  as  to  women  the  most  de- 
testable opinions ;  he  loved  them,  and  he  despised 
them.  Their  honor  !  their  feelings  !  Ta-ra-ra,  rubbish 
and  shams!  When  he  was  with  them,  he  believed  in 
them,  the  ci-devant  "  monstre  ;  "  he  never  contradicted 
them,  and  he  made  them  shine.  But  among  his  male 
friends,  when  the  topic  of  the  sex  came  up,  he  laid 
down  the  principle  that  to  deceive  women,  and  to  carry 
on  several  intrigues  at  once,  should  be  the  occupation 
of  those  3'oung  men  who  were  so  misguided  as  to  wish 
to  meddle  in  the  affairs  of  the  State.  It  is  sad  to  have 
to  sketch  so  hackne3'ed  a  portrait,  for  has  it  not  figured 
everywhere  and  become,  literallj',  as  threadbare  as  that 
of  a  grenadier  of  the  Empire?  But  the  vidame  had  an 
influence  on  Monsieur  de  Maulincour's  destinj^  which 
obliges  us  to  preserve  his  portrait ;  he  lectured  the 
young  man  after  his  fashion,  and  did  his  best  to  con- 
vert him  to  the  doctrines  of  the  great  age  of  gallantr3\ 

The  dowager,  a  tender-hearted,  pious  woman,  sitting 
between  God  and  her  vidame,  a  model  of  grace  and 
sweetness,  but  gifted  with  that  well-bred  persistenc}^ 
which  triumphs  in  the  long  run,  had  longed  to  preserve 
for  her  grandson  the  beautiful  illusions  of  life,  and  had 
therefore  brought  him  up  in  the  highest  principles  ;  she 


Ferragus.  1 7 

instilled  into  liim  her  own  delicacy  of  feeling  and  made 
him,  to  outward  appearance,  a  timid  man,  if  not  a  fool. 
The  sensibilities  of  the  young  fellow,  preserved  pure, 
were  not  worn  by  contact  without ;  he  remained  so 
chaste,  so  scrupulous,  that  he  was  keenly  offended  by 
actions  and  maxims  to  which  the  world  attached  no 
consequence.  Ashamed  of  this  susceptibility,  he  forced 
himself  to  conceal  it  under  a  false  hardihood ;  but  he 
suffered  in  secret,  all  the  while  scoffing  with  others  at 
the  things  he  reverenced. 

It  came  to  pass  that  he  was  deceived  ;  because,  in 
accordance  with  a  not  uncommon  whim  of  destin}^,  he, 
a  man  of  gentle  melanchol}',  and  spiritual  in  love, 
encountered  in  the  object  of  his  first  passion  a  woman 
who  held  in  horror  all  German  sentimentalism.  The 
young  man,  in  consequence,  distrusted  himself,  became 
dreamy,  absorbed  in  his  griefs,  complaining  of  not 
being  understood.  Then,  as  we  desire  all  the  more 
violently  the  things  we  find  it  difficult  to  obtain,  he 
continued  to  adore  women  with  that  ingenuous  tender- 
ness and  feline  delicacy  the  secret  of  which  belongs  to 
women  themselves,  who  may,  perhaps,  prefer  to  keep 
the  monopoly  of  it.  In  point  of  fact,  though  women 
of  the  world  complain  of  the  way  men  love  them,  the}' 
have  little  liking  themselves  for  those  whose  soul  is 
half  feminine.  Their  own  superiorit}'  consists  in  mak- 
ing men  believe  the}^  are  their  inferiors  in  love  ;  there- 

2 


18  Ferragus. 

fore  the}^  will  readily  leave  a  lover  if  he  is  inexperienced 
enough  to  rob  them  of  those  fears  with  which  the^'  seek 
to  deck  themselves,  those  delightful  tortures  of  feigned 
jealous}',  those  troubles  of  hope  betrayed,  those  futile 
expectations,  —  in  short,  the  whole  procession  of  their 
feminine  miseries.  They  hold  Sir  Charles  Grandison 
in  horror.  What  can  be  more  contrary  to  their  nature 
than  a  tranquil,  perfect  love?  They  want  emotions; 
happiness  without  storms  is  not  happiness  to  them. 
Women  souls  that  are  strong:  enouo;h  to  brinaj  infini- 
tude  into  love  are  angelic  exceptions  ;  they  are  among 
women  what  noble  geniuses  are  among  men.  Their 
great  passions  are  rare  as  masterpieces.  Below  the 
level  of  such  love  come  compromises,  conventions, 
passing  and  contemptible  irritations,  as  in  all  things 
petty  and  perishable. 

Amid  the  hidden  disasters  of  his  heart,  and  while  he 
was  still  seeking  the  woman  who  could  comprehend  him 
(a  search  which,  let  us  remark  in  passing,  is  one  of  the 
amorous  follies  of  our  epoch),  Auguste  met,  in  the 
rank  of  society  that  was  farthest  from  his  own,  in 
the  secondary  sphere  of  raone}',  where  banking  holds 
the  first  place,  a  perfect  being,  one  of  those  women 
who  have  I  know  not  what  about  them  that  is  saintl}' 
and  sacred,  —  women  who  inspire  such  reverence  that 
love  has  need  of  the  help  of  long  familiarity  to  declare 
itself. 


Ferragus.  19 

Auguste  then  gave  himself  up  wholly  to  the  deliglits 
of  the  deepest  and  most  moving  of  passions,  to  a  love 
that  was  purely  adoring.  Innumerable  repressed  de- 
sires there  were,  shadows  of  passion  so  vague  yet  so 
profound,  so  fugitive  and  j'.et  so  actual,  that  one 
scarcel}'  knows  to  what  we  may  compare  them.  They 
are  like  perfumes,  or  clouds,  or  rays  of  the  sun,  or 
shadows,  or  whatever  there  is  in  nature  that  shines  for 
a  moment  and  disappears,  that  springs  to  life  and  dies, 
leaving  in  the  heart  long  echoes  of  emotion.  When 
the  soul  is  young  enough  to  nurture  melancholy  and 
far-off  hope,  to  find  in  woman  more  than  a  woman,  is 
it  not  the  greatest  happiness  that  can  befall  a  man 
when  he  loves  enough  to  feel  more  J03'  in  touching  a 
gloved  hand,  or  a  lock  of  hair,  in  listening  to  a  word, 
in  casting  a  single  look,  than  in  all  the  ardor  of  pos- 
session given  b}'  happ}'  love  ?  Thus  it  is  that  rejected 
persons,  those  rebuffed  b}'  fate,  the  ugly  and  unfortu- 
tunate,  lovers  unrevealed,  women  and  timid  men,  alone 
know  the  treasures  contained  in  the  voice  of  the  be- 
loved. Taking  their  source  and  their  element  from  the 
soul  itself,  the  vibrations  of  the  air,  charged  with  pas- 
sion, put  our  hearts  so  powerfuU}' into  communion,  carry- 
ing thought  between  them  so  lucidh',  and  being,  above 
all,  so  incapable  of  falsehood,  that  a  single  inflection  of 
a  voice  is  often  a  revelation.  What  enchantments  the 
intonations  of  a  tender  voice  can  bestow  upon  the  heart 


20  Ferragus. 

of  a  poet !  What  ideas  the}'  awaken  !  What  freshness 
they  shed  there  !  Love  is  in  the  voice  before  the  glance 
avows  it.  Aiiguste,  poet  after  the  manner  of  lovers 
(there  are  poets  who  feel,  and  poets  who  express  ;  the 
first  are  the  happiest),  Auguste  had  tasted  all  these 
early  joys,  so  vast,  so  fecund.  She  possessed  the  most 
winning  organ  that  the  most  artful  woman  of  the  world 
could  have  desired  in  order  to  deceive  at  her  ease  ; 
she  had  that  silvery  voice  which  is  soft  to  the  ear,  and 
ringing  only  for  the  heart  which  it  stirs  and  troubles, 
caresses  and  subjugates. 

And  this  woman  went  by  night  to  the  rue  Soly 
through  the  rue  Pagevin  !  and  her  furtive  apparition 
in  an  infamous  house  had  just  destroyed  the  grandest 
of  passions  !     The  vidame's  logic  triumphed. 

"  If  she  is  betra3'ing  her  husband  we  will  avenge 
ourselves,"  said  Auguste. 

There  was  still  faith  in  that  "  if."  The  philosophic 
doubt  of  Descartes  is  a  politeness  with  which  we  should 
alwaj's  honor  virtue.  Ten  o'clock  sounded.  The  Baron 
de  Maulincour  remembered  that  this  woman  was  going 
to  a  ball  that  evening  at  a  house  to  M'hich  he  had 
access.  He  dressed,  went  there,  and  searched  for  her 
through  all  the  salons.  The  mistress  of  the  house,  Ma- 
dame de  Nucingen,  seeing  him  thus  occupied,  said  :  — 

"  You  are  looking  for  Madame  Jules  ;  but  she  has 
not  yet  come." 


Ferragus.  21 

''  Good  evening,  dear,"  said  a  voice. 

Augnste  and  Madame  de  Niicingen  turned  round. 
Madame  Jules  had  arrived,  dressed  in  white,  looking 
simple  and  noble,  wearing  in  her  hair  the  marabouts 
the  3'oung  baron  had  seen  her  choose  in  the  flower- 
shop.  That  voice  of  love  now  pierced  his  heart.  Had 
he  won  the  slightest  right  to  be  jealous  of  her  he 
would  have  petrified  her  then  and  there  by  saying  the 
w^ords,  "Rue  Soly !  "  But  if  he,  an  alien  to  her  life, 
had  said  those  words  in  her  ear  a  thousand  times, 
Madame  Jules  would  have  asked  him  in  astonishment 
wdiat  he  meant.     He  looked  at  her  stupidl}'. 

For  those  sarcastic  persons  who  scoff  at  all  things  it 
ma}^  be  a  great  amusement  to  detect  the  secret  of  a 
woman,  to  know  that  her  chastit}'  is  a  lie,  that  her 
calm  face  hides  some  anxious  thought,  that  under  that 
pure  brow  is  a  dreadful  drama.  But  there  are  other 
souls  to  whom  the  sight  is  saddening;  and  man}*  of 
those  who  laugh  in  public,  when  withdrawn  into  them- 
selves and  alone  with  their  conscience,  curse  the  world 
while  the}'  despise  the  woman.  Such  was  the  case 
with  Auguste  de  Maulincour,  as  he  stood  there  in 
presence  of  Madame  Jules.  Singular  situation  !  There 
was  no  other  relation  between  them  than  that  which 
social  life  establishes  between  persons  who  exchange 
a  few  words  seven  or  eight  times  in  the  course  of  a 
winter,  and  yet  he  was  calling  her  to  account  on  behalf 


22  Ferragus. 

of  a  happiness  unknown  to  her ;  he  was  judging  her, 
without  letting  her  know  of  his  accusation. 

Many  young  men  find  themselves  thus  in  despair 
at  having  broken  forever  with  a  woman  adored  in 
secret,  condemned  and  despised  in  secret.  There  are 
many  hidden  monologues  told  to  the  walls  of  some 
solitary'  lodging ;  storms  roused  and  calmed  without 
ever  leaving  the  depths  of  hearts  ;  amazing  scenes  of 
the  moral  world,  for  which  a  painter  is  wanted.  Ma- 
dame Jules  sat  down,  leaving  her  husband  to  make 
a  turn  around  the  salon.  After  she  was  seated  she 
seemed  uneasy,  and,  while  talking  with  her  neighbor, 
she  kept  a  furtive  e3'e  on  Monsieur  Jules  Desmarets, 
her  husband,  a  broker  chiefly  employed  by  the  Baron 
de  Nucingen.  The  following  is  the  historj'  of  their 
home  life. 

Monsieur  Desmarets  was,  five  3'ears  before  his  mar- 
riage, in  a  broker's  office,  with  no  other  means  than 
the  meagre  salar}'  of  a  clerk.  But  he  was  a  man  to 
whom  misfortune  had  earl}'  taught  the  truths  of  life,  and 
he  followed  the  strait  path  with  the  tenacity  of  an  insect 
making  for  its  nest;  he  was  one  of  those  dogged  3'oung 
fellows  who  feign  death  before  an  obstacle  and  wear 
out  everj'body's  patience  with  their  own  beetle-like 
perseverance.  Thus,  young  as  he  was,  he  had  all  the 
republican  virtue  of  poor  peoples  ;  he  was  sober,  saving 
of  his  time,  an  enemy  to  pleasure.     He  waited.    Nature 


Ferragus.  23 

had  given  him  the  immense  advantage  of  an  agree- 
able exterior.  His  calm,  pure  brow,  the  shape  of  his 
placid,  but  expressive  face,  his  simple  manners,  —  all 
revealed  in  him  a  laborious  and  resigned  existence, 
that  lofty  personal  dignitj-  which  is  imposing  to  others, 
and  the  secret  nobilit}'  of  heart  which  can  meet  all 
events.  His  modest}'  inspired  a  sort  of  respect  in 
those  who  knew  him.  Solitary  in  the  midst  of  Paris, 
he  knew  the  social  world  only  b}'  glimpses  during  the 
brief  moments  which  he  spent  in  his  patron's  salon  on 
holidaj's. 

There  were  passions  in  this  young  man,  as  in  most 
of  the  men  who  live  in  that  wa}',  of  amazing  profundit}', 
—  passions  too  vast  to  be  drawn  into  pett}'  incidents. 
His  want  of  means  compelled  him  to  lead  an  ascetic 
life,  and  he  conquered  his  fancies  b}"  hard  work.  After 
paling  all  da}'  over  figures,  he  found  his  recreation  in 
striving  obstinately  to  acquire  that  wide  general  knowl- 
edge so  necessary  in  these  days  to  every  man  who 
wants  to  make  his  mark,  whether  in  society,  or  in  com- 
merce, at  the  bar,  or  in  politics  or  literature.  The 
only  peril  these  fine  souls  have  to  fear  comes  from 
their  own  uprightness.  They  see  some  poor  girl ;  they 
love  her ;  they  marry  her,  and  wear  out  their  lives  in  a 
struggle  between  poverty  and  love.  The  noblest  am- 
bition is  quenched  perforce  by  the  household  account- 
book.     Jules  Desmarets  went  headlong  into  this  peril. 


24  Ferragus. 

He  met  one  evening  at  his  patron's  house  a  girl  of 
the  rarest  beaut3\  Unfortunate  men  who  are  deprived 
of  affection,  and  who  consume  the  finest  hours  of  3'outh 
in  work  and  stud}',  alone  know  the  rapid  ravages  that 
passion  makes  in  their  loneh",  misconceived  hearts. 
The}^  are  so  certain  of  loving  truh',  all  their  forces 
are  concentrated  so  quickly  on  the  object  of  their 
love,  that  they  receive,  while  beside  her,  the  most 
dehghtful  sensations,  when,  as  often  happens,  they 
inspire  none  at  all.  Nothing  is  more  flattering  to  a 
woman's  egotism  than  to  divine  this  passion,  appar- 
ently immovable,  and  these  emotions  so  deep  that 
they  have  needed  a  great  length  of  time  to  reach  the 
human  surface.  These  poor  men,  anchorites  in  the 
midst  of  Paris,  have  all  the  enjoyments  of  anchorites ; 
and  ma}'  sometimes  succumb  to  temptations.  But, 
more  often  deceived,  betrayed,  and  misunderstood, 
they  are  rarely  able  to  gather  the  sweet  fruits  of  a 
love  which,  to  them,  is  like  a  flower  dropped  from 
heaven. 

One  smile  from  his  wife,  a  single  inflection  of  her 
voice  sufficed  to  make  Jules  Desmarets  conceive  a 
passion  which  was  boundless.  Happily,  the  concen- 
trated fire  of  that  secret  passion  revealed  itself  art- 
lessly to  the  woman  who  inspired  it.  These  two 
beings  then  loved  each  other  religiousl}'.  To  express 
all  in  a  word,  the}'  clasped  hands  without  shame  before 


Fcrragus.  25 

the  eyes  of  the  world  and  went  their  wa}'  like  two 
children,  brother  and  sister,  passing  serenely  through 
a  crowd  where  all  made  way  for  them  and  admired 
them. 

The  young  girl  was  in  one  of  those  unfortunate  posi- 
tions which  human  selfishness  entails  upon  children. 
She  had  no  civil  status  ;  her  name  of  "Clemence"  and 
her  age  were  recorded  only  by  a  notar}^  public.  As  for 
her  fortune,  that  was  small  indeed.  Jules  Desmarets 
was  a  happy  man  on  hearing  these  particulars.  If 
Clemence  had  belonged  to  an  opulent  family,  he  might 
have  despaired  of  obtaining  her ;  but  she  was  only  the 
poor  child  of  love,  the  fruit  of  some  terrible  adulterous 
passion ;  and  they  were  married.  Then  began  for 
Jules  D^marets  a  series  of  fortunate  events.  Ever}^ 
one  envied  his  happiness  ;  and  henceforth  talked  only 
of  his  luck,  without  recalling  either  his  virtues  or  his 
courage. 

Some  days  after  their  marriage,  the  mother  of 
Clemence,  who  passed  in  society  for  her  godmother, 
told  Jules  Desmarets  to  bu}'  the  office  and  good-will 
of  a  broker,  promising  to  provide  him  with  the  neces- 
sary capital.  In  those  days,  such  offices  could  still  be 
bought  at  a  moderate  price.  That  evening,  in  the 
salon  as  it  happened  of  his  patron,  a  wealthy  capitalist 
proposed,  on  the  recommendation  of  the  mother,  a  very 
advantaseous  transaction  for  Jules  Desmarets,  and  the 


26  Ferragus. 

next  day  the  happy  clerk  was  able  to  hwy  out  liis 
patron.  In  four  3'ears  Desmarets  became  one  of  the 
most  prosperous  men  in  his  business  ;  new  clients  in- 
creased the  number  his  predecessor  had  left  to  him  ; 
he  inspired  confidence  in  all ;  and  it  was  impossible 
for  him  not  to  feel,  by  the  way  business  came  to  him, 
that  some  hidden  influence,  due  to  his  mother-in-law, 
or  to  Providence,  was  secretl}*  protecting  him. 

At  the  end  of  the  third  3'ear  Clemence  lost  her  god- 
mother. B3'  that  time  Monsieur  Jules  (so  called  to  dis- 
tinguish him  from  an  elder  brother,  whom  he  had  set  up 
as  a  notar^^  in  Paris)  possessed  an  income  from  invested 
property  of  two  hundred  thousand  francs.  There  was 
not  in  all  Paris  another  instance  of  the  domestic  hap- 
piness enjoyed  b}'  this  couple.  For  five  3'ears  their 
exceptional  love  had  been  troubled  bv  onh'  one  event, 
—  a  calumn3'  for  which  Monsieur  Jules  exacted  ven- 
geance. One  of  his  former  comrades  attributed  to 
Madame  Jules  the  fortune  of  her  husband,  explaining 
that  it  came  from  a  high  protection  dearl3'  paid  for. 
The  man  who  uttered  the  calumny  was  killed  in  the 
.duel  that  followed  it. 

The  profound  passion  of  this  couple,  which  survived 
marriage,  obtained  a  great  success  in  societ3',  though 
some  women  were  annoyed  b3^  it.  The  charming  house- 
hold was  respected  ;  everybod3'  feted  it.  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Jules   were  sincerelv  liked,  perhaps  because 


Ferragus.  27 

there  is  nothing  more  delightful  to  see  than  happj- 
people  ;  but  they  never  stayed  long  at  any  festivity. 
They  slipped  awa}'  earl}',  as  impatient  to  regain  their 
nest  as  wandering  pigeons.  This  nest  was  a  large  and 
beautiful  mansion  in  the  rue  de  Menars,  where  a  true 
feeling  for  art  tempered  the  luxury  which  the  financial 
world  continues,  traditionally,  to  display.  Here  the 
happy  pair  received  their  society  magnificently,  although 
the  obligations  of  social  life  suited  them  but  little. 

Nevertheless,  Jules  submitted  to  the  demands  of  the 
world,  knowing  that,  sooner  or  later,  a  family  has  need 
of  it ;  but  he  and  his  wife  felt  themselves,  in  its 
midst,  like  green-house  plants  in  a  tempest.  With  a 
delicacy  that  was  very  natural,  Jules  had  concealed 
from  his  wife  the  calumny  and  the  death  of  the  calum- 
niator. Madame  Jules,  herself,  was  inclined,  through 
her  sensitive  and  artistic  nature,  to  desire  luxurj'.  In 
spite  of  the  terrible  lesson  of  the  duel,  some  imprudent 
women  whispered  to  each  other  that  Madame  Jules 
must  sometimes  be  pressed  for  money.  They  often 
found  her  more  elegantly  dressed  in  her  own  home 
than  when  she  went  into  societ}'.  She  loved  to  adorn 
herself  to  please  her  husband,  wishing  to  show  him 
tliat  to  her  he  was  more  than  any  social  life.  A  true 
love,  a  pure  love,  above  all,  a  happ}-  love !  Jules, 
always  a  lover,  and  more  in  love  as  time  went  by,  was 
happy  in  all  things  beside  his  wife,  even  in  her  caprices ; 


28  Ferragus. 

in  fact,  he  would  have  been  uneasy  if  she  had  none, 
thinking  it  a  symptom  of  some  illness. 

Auguste  de  Maulincour  had  the  personal  misfortune 
of  running  against  this  passion,  and  falling  in  love 
with  the  wife  beyond  recovery.  Nevertheless,  though 
he  carried  in  his  heart  so  intense  a  love,  he  was  not 
ridiculous  ;  he  complied  with  all  the  demands  of  soci- 
et}',  and  of  military  manners  and  customs.  And  yet 
his  face  wore  constantl}',  even  though  he  might  be 
drinking  a  glass  of  champagne,  that  dream}'  look,  that 
air  of  silently  despising  life,  that  nebulous  expression 
which  belongs,  though  for  other  reasons,  to  biases  men, 
—  men  dissatisfied  with  hollow  lives.  To  love  without 
hope,  to  be  disgusted  with  life,  constitute,  in  these 
da3'S,  a  social  position.  The  enterprise  of  winning 
the  heart  of  a  sovereign  might  give,  perhaps,  more 
hope  than  a  love  rashlj'  conceived  for  a  happ}-  woman. 
Therefore  Maulincour  had  sufficient  reason  to  be  grave 
and  gloom}'.  A  queen  has  the  vanit}'  of  her  power ; 
the  height  of  her  elevation  protects  her.  But  a  pious 
bourgeoise  is  like  a  hedgehog,  or  an  ojster,  in  its  rough 
wrappings. 

At  this  moment  the  3'oung  officer  was  beside  his 
unconscious  mistress,  who  certainlj'  was  unaware  that 
she  was  doubly  faithless.  Madame  Jules  was  seated,  in 
a  naive  attitude,  like  the  least  artful  woman  in  exist- 
ence,   soft    and    gentle,    full   of    a    mnjestic   serenity. 


Ferragus.  29 

What  an  abyss  is  human  nature  !  Before  beginning  a 
conversation,  the  bamii  looked  alternately  at  the  wife 
and  at  the  husband.  How  many  were  the  reflections 
he  made  !  He  recoraposed  the  "  Night  Thoughts  "  of 
Young  in  a  second.  And  3'et  the  music  was  sounding 
tlirough  the  salons,  the  light  was  pouring  from  a  thou- 
sand candles.  It  was  a  banker's  ball,  —  one  of  those 
insolent  festivals  bj''  means  of  which  the  world  of  solid 
gold  endeavored  to  sneer  at  the  gold-embossed  salons 
where  the  faubourg  Saint-Germain  met  and  laughed,  not 
foreseeing  the  day  when  the  bank  would  invade  the 
Luxembourg  and  take  its  seat  upon  the  throne.  The 
conspirators  were  now  dancing,  indifferent  to  coming 
bankruptcies,  whether  of  Power  or  of  the  Bank.  The 
gilded  salons  of  the  Baron  de  Nucingen  were  gay  with 
that  peculiar  animation  that  the  world  of  Paris,  appar- 
entl}'  joyous  at  any  rate,  gives  to  its  fetes.  There, 
men  of  talent  communicate  their  wit  to  fools,  and  fools 
communicate  that  air  of  enjo3'ment  that  characterizes 
them.  B}'  means  of  this  exchange  all  is  liveliness. 
But  a  ball  in  Paris  alwaj's  resembles  fireworks  to  a 
certain  extent ;  wit,  coquetrj',  and  pleasure  sparkle 
and  go  out  like  rockets.  The  next  da}'  all  present  have 
forgotten  their  wit,  their  coquetry,  their  pleasure. 

"Ah!"  thought  Auguste,  by  way  of  conclusion, 
"  women  are  what  the  vidame  sa3's  they  are.  Cer- 
tainly all  those   dancing   here  are  less   irreproachable 


30  Ferragus. 

actually  than  Madame  Jules  appears  to  be,  and  j'et 
Madame  Jules  went  to  the  rue  Soh' ! " 

The  rue  Soly  was  like  an  illness  to  him  ;  the  very 
word  shrivelled  his  heart. 

"  Madame,  do  3'ou  ever  dance?  "  he  said  to  her. 

"  This  is  the  third  time  you  have  asked  me  that 
question  this  winter,"  she  answered,  smiling. 

"  But  perhaps  you  have  never  answered  it." 

"  That  is  true." 

"I  knew  xQvy  well  that  you  were  false,  like  other 
women." 

Madame  Jules  continued  to  smile. 

"Listen,  monsieur,"  she  said;  "if  I  told  you  the 
real  reason,  you  would  think  it  ridiculous.  I  do  not 
think  it  false  to  abstain  from  telling  things  that  the 
world  would  laugh  at." 

"  All  secrets  demand,  in  order  to  be  told,  a  friend- 
ship of  which  I  am  no  doubt  unworth}',  madame.  But 
3'ou  cannot  have  any  but  noble  secrets  ;  do  3'ou  think 
me  capable  of  jesting  on  noble  things  ? " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "  3'ou,  like  all  the  rest,  laugh  at 
our  purest  sentiments  ;  you  calumniate  them.  Besides, 
I  have  no  secrets.  I  have  the  right  to  love  my  husband 
in  the  face  of  all  the  world,  and  I  say  so,  —  I  am  proud 
of  it ;  and  if  you  laugh  at  me  when  I  tell  j'ou  tliat  I 
dance  only  with  him,  I  shall  have  a  bad  opinion  of  3'our 
heart." 


Ferragus.  31 

''  Have  you  never  danced  since  your  marriage  with 
an}'  one  but  your  husband  ?  " 

"Never.  His  arm  is  the  only  one  on  which  I  liave 
leaned  ;  I  have  never  felt  the  touch  of  another  man." 

"  Has  3'our  phs'sician  never  felt  your  pulse?" 

''  Now  you  are  laughing  at  me." 

"No,  madame,  I  admire  you,  because  I  comprehend 
3'ou.  But  you  let  a  man  hear  3'our  voice,  you  let  your- 
self be  seen,  you  —  in  short,  you  permit  our  eyes  to 
admire  you  —  " 

"Ah!  "  she  said,  interrupting  him,  "  that  is  one  of 
my  griefs.  Yes,  I  wish  it  were  possible  for  a  married 
woman  to  live  secluded  with  her  husband,  as  a  mistress 
lives  with  her  lover,  for  then  —  " 

"Then  wh}'  were  you,  two  hours  ago,  on  foot,  dis- 
guised, in  the  rue  Soly  ?  " 

"  The  rue  Soly,  where  is  that?'^  > 

And  her  pure  voice  gave  no  sign  of  an}'  emotion  ;  no 
feature  of  her  face  quivered ;  she  did  not  blush ;  she 
remained  calm. 

"  What !  30U  did  not  go  up  to  the  second  floor  of  a 
house  in  the  rue  des  Vieux-Augustins  at  the  corner  of 
the  rue  Soly?  You  did  not  have  a  hackne3'-coach 
waiting  near  b3'?  You  did  not  return  in  it  to  the 
flower-shop  in  the  rue  Richelieu,  where  you  bought  the 
feathers  that  are  now  in  your  hair?  " 

"  I  did  not  leave  m3'  house  this  evening." 


32  Ferragus.  ' 

As  she  uttered  that  lie  she  was  smiUng  and  imper- 
turbable ;  she  played  with  her  fan  ;  but  if  any  one  had 
passed  a  hand  down  her  back  they  would,  perhaps,  have 
found  it  moist.  At  that  instant  Auguste  remembered 
the  instructions  of  the  vidame. 

"  Then  it  was  some  one  who  strangel}'  resembled 
3'ou,"  he  said,  with  a  credulous  air. 

'' Monsieur,"  she  replied,  "if  3'ou  are  capable  of 
following  a  woman  and  detecting  her  secrets,  3'ou  will 
allow  me  to  sa}'  that  it  is  a  wrong,  a  very  wrong  thing, 
and  I  do  you  the  honor  to  sa}'  that  I  disbelieve  3'Ou." 

The  baron  turned  away,  placed  himself  before  the 
fireplace  and  seemed  thoughtful.  He  bent  his  head ; 
but  his  ej'es  were  covertl}'  fixed  on  Madame  Jules, 
who,  not  remembering  the  reflections  in  the  mirror, 
cast  two  or  three  glances  at  him  that  were  full  of 
terror.  Presently  she  made  a  sign  to  her  husband 
and  rising  took  his  arm  to  walk  about  the  salon.  As 
she  passed  before  Monsieur  de  Maulincour,  who  at 
that  moment  was  speaking  to  a  friend,  he  said  in  a 
loud  voice,  as  if  in  reply  to  a  remark :  "  That  woman 
will  certainh'  not  sleep  quietl}'  this  night."  Madame 
Jules  stopped,  gave  him  an  imposing  look  which  ex- 
pressed contempt,  and  continued  her  wa}',  unaware 
that  another  look,  if  surprised  by  her  husband,  might 
endanger  not  onlj-  her  happiness  but  the  lives  of  two 
men.     Auguste,  frantic  with  anger,  which  he  tried  to 


Fcrragus.  3 


o 


smother  in  the  depths  of  his  soul,  presentl}'  left  the 
house,  swearing  to  penetrate  to  the  heart  of  the  m3-s- 
terj.  Before  leaving,  he  sought  Madame  Jules,  to 
look  at  her  again  ;  but  she  had  disappeared. 

What  a  drama  cast  into  that  3'oung  head  so  emi- 
nently romantic,  like  all  who  have  not  known  love  in 
the  wide  extent  which  they  give  to  it.  He  adored 
Madame  Jules  under  a  new  aspect ;  he  loved  her 
now  with  the  fury  of  jealous}^  and  the  frenzied 
anguish  of  hope.  Unfaithful  to  her  husband,  the 
woman  became  common.  Auguste  could  now  give 
himself  up  to  the  joj's  of  successful  love,  and  his  imag- 
ination opened  to  him  a  career  of  pleasures.  Yes,  he 
had  lost  the  angel,  but  he  had  found  the  most  delight- 
ful of  demons.  He  went  to  bed,  building  castles  in 
the  air,  excusing  Madame  Jules  b}'  some  romantic  fic- 
tion in  which  he  did  not  believe.  He  resolved  to 
devote  himself  wholh',  from  that  daj^  forth,  to  a  search 
for  the  causes,  motives,  and  ke3'note  of  this  myster}'. 
It  was  a  tale  to  read,  or,  better  still,  a  drama  to  be 
played,  in  which  he  had  a  part. 


34  Ferragus. 


II. 


FERRAGUS. 

A  FINE  thing  is  the  task  of  a  spy,  when  performed 
for  one's  own  benefit  and  in  the  interests  of  a  passion. 
Is  it  not  giving  ourselves  the  pleasures  of  a  thief  and 
a  rascal  while  continuing  honest  men?  But  there  is 
another  side  to  it ;  we  must  resign  ourselves  to  boil 
with  anger,  to  roar  with  impatience,  to  freeze  our  feet 
in  the  mud,  to  be  numbed,  and  roasted,  and  torn  by 
false  hopes.  We  must  go,  on  the  faith  of  a  mere  indi- 
cation, to  a  vague  object,  miss  our  end,  curse  our  luck, 
improvise  to  ourselves  elegies,  dith^Tambics,  exclaim 
idioticall}"  before  inoffensive  pedestrians  who  observe 
us,  knock  over  old  apple-women  and  their  baskets, 
run  hither  and  thither,  stand  on  guard  beneath  a  win- 
dow, make  a  thousand  suppositions.  But,  after  all, 
it  is  a  chase,  a  hunt ;  a  hunt  in  Paris,  a  hunt  with  all 
its  chances,  minus  dogs  and  guns  and  the  tally-ho ! 
Nothing  compares  with  it  but  the  life  of  gamblers. 
But  it  needs  a  heart  big  with  love  and  vengeance  to 
ambush  itself  in  Paris,  like  a  tiger  waiting  to  spring 
upon  its  prey,  and  to  enjoy  the  chances  and  con- 
tingencies of  Paris,  bj^  adding  one  special  interest  to 


Ferragus,  35 

the  many  that  abound  there.  But  for  this  we  need  a 
manj'-sided  soul  —  for  must  we  not  live  in  a  thousand 
passions,  a  thousand  sentiments? 

Auguste  de  Maulincour  flung  himself  into  this  ardent 
existence  passionatel}',  for  he  felt  all  its  pleasures  and 
all  its  misery.  He  went  disguised  about  Paris,  watch- 
ing at  the  corners  of  the  rue  Pagevin  and  the  rue 
des  Vieux-Augustins.  He  hurried  like  a  hunter  from 
the  rue  de  Menars  to  the  rue  Soly,  and  back  from  the 
rue  Soly  to  the  rue  de  Menars,  without  obtaining  either 
the  vengeance  or  the  knowledge  which  would  punish 
or  reward  such  cares,  such  efforts,  such  wiles.  But 
he  had  not  yet  reached  that  impatience  which  wrings 
our  very  entrails  and  makes  us  sweat ;  he  roamed  in 
hope,  believing  that  Madame  Jules  would  onl}-  refrain 
for  a  few  da3's  from  revisiting  the  place  where  she 
knew  she  had  been  detected.  He  devoted  the  first 
days  therefore,  to  a  careful  study  of  the  secrets  of  the 
street.  A  novice  at  such  work,  he  dared  not  question 
either  the  porter  or  the  shoemaker  of  the  house  to 
which  Madame  Jules  had  gone  ;  but  he  managed  to 
obtain  a  post  of  observation  in  a  house  directh^  op- 
posite to  the  mysterious  apartment.  He  studied  the 
ground,  tr3'ing  to  reconcile  the  conflicting  demands  of 
prudence,  impatience,  love,  and  secrec}'. 

Earl}'  in  the  month  of  March,  while  bus}'  with  plans 
by  which  he  expected  to  strike  a  decisive  blow,   he 


36  Ferragus. 

left  his  post  about  four  in  the  afternoon,  after  one  of 
those  patient  watches  from  which  he  had  learned  noth- 
ing. He  was  on  his  wa}^  to  his  own  house  whither  a 
matter  relating  to  his  military  service  called  him,  when 
he  was  overtaken  in  the  rue  Coquilliere  by  one  of  those 
heavy  showers  which  instantly  flood  the  gutters,  while 
each  drop  of  rain  rings  loudl}'  in  the  puddles  of  the 
roadway.  A  pedestrian  under  these  circumstances  is 
forced  to  stop  short  and  take  refuge  in  a  shop  or  cafe 
if  he  is  rich  enough  to  pay  for  the  forced  hospitalit}-, 
or,  if  in  poorer  circumstances,  under  a  porte-cocMre. 
that  haven  of  paupers  or  shabbily  dressed  persons. 
Why  have  none  of  our  painters  ever  attempted  to  re- 
produce the  physiognomies  of  a  swarm  of  Parisians, 
grouped,  under  stress  of  weather,  in  the  damp  porte- 
cocMre  of  a  building?  Where  could  they  find  a  richer 
subject?  First,  there's  the  musing  philosophical  pe- 
destrian, who  observes  with  interest  all  he  sees,  — 
whether  it  be  the  stripes  made  b}'  the  rain  on  the 
gray  background  of  the  atmosphere  (a  species  of  chas- 
ing not  unlike  the  capricious  threads  of  spun  glass), 
or  the  whirl  of  white  water  which  the  wind  is  driving 
like  a  luminous  dust  along  the  roofs,  or  the  fitful  dis- 
gorgements of  the  gutter-pipes,  sparkling  and  foaming  ; 
in  short,  the  thousand  nothings  to  be  admired  and 
studied  with  delight  by  loungers,  in  spite  of  the  por- 
ter's  broom   which  pretends  to  be  sweeping  out  the 


Ferragits.  37 

gatewa}'.  Tlien  there 's  the  talkative  refugee,  who 
complains  and  converses  with  the  porter  while  he  rests 
on  his  broom  like  a  grenadier  on  his  musket ;  or  the 
pauper  wayfarer,  curled  against  the  wall  indifferent  to 
the  condition  of  his  rags,  long  used,  alas,  to  contact 
with  the  streets ;  or  the  learned  pedestrian  who  stud- 
ies, spells,  and  reads  the  posters  on  the  walls  without  fin- 
ishing them  ;  or  the  smiling  pedestrian  who  makes  fun 
of  others  to  whom  some  street  fatality'  has  happened, 
who  laughs  at  the  mudd}'  women,  and  makes  grimaces 
at  those  of  either  sex  who  are  looking  from  the  win- 
dows ;  and  the  silent  being  who  gazes  from  floor  to 
floor;  and  the  working-man,  armed  with  a  satchel  or  a 
paper  bundle,  who  is  estimating  the  rain  as  a  profit  or 
loss ;  and  the  good-natured  fugitive,  who  arrives  like 
a  shot  exclaiming,  "  Ah  !  what  weather,  messieurs,  what 
weather !  "  and  bows  to  every  one ;  and,  finally,  the 
true  bourgeois  of  Paris,  with  his  unfailing  umbrella, 
an  expert  in  showers,  who  foresaw  this  particular  one, 
but  would  come  out  in  spite  of  his  wife  ;  this  one  takes 
a  seat  in  the  porter's  chair.  According  to  individual 
character,  each  member  of  this  fortuitous  societ}-  con- 
templates the  skies,  and  departs,  skipping  to  avoid  the 
mud,  —  because  he  is  in  a  hurrj-,  or  because  he  sees 
other  citizens  walking  along  in  spite  of  wind  and  slush, 
or  because,  the  archwa}'  being  damp  and  mortalh'  catar- 
rnal,  the  bed's  edge,  as  the  proverb  says,  is  better  than 


38  Ferragus. 

the  sheets.  Each  one  has  his  motive.  No  one  is  left 
but  the  prudent  pedestrian,  the  man  who,  before  he 
sets  forth,  makes  sure  of  a  scrap  of  blue  sk^'  through 
the  rifting  clouds. 

Monsieur  de  Maulincour  took  refuge,  as  we  have 
said,  with  a  whole  famih'  of  fugitives,  under  the  porch 
of  an  old  house,  the  court-yard  of  which  looked  like 
the  flue  of  a  chimne3\  The  sides  of  its  plastered,  nit- 
rified, and  mould}'  walls  were  so  covered  with  pipes 
and  conduits  from  all  the  man}'  floors  of  its  four  ele- 
vations, that  it  might  have  been  said  to  resemble  at 
that  moment  tlie  cascatelles  of  Saint-Cloud.  Water 
flowed  everywhere ;  it  boiled,  it  leaped,  it  murmured ; 
it  was  black,  white,  blue,  and  green ;  it  shrieked,  it 
bubbled  under  the  broom  of  the  portress,  a  toothless 
old  woman  used  to  storms,  who  seemed  to  bless  them 
as  she  swept  into  the  street  a  mass  of  scraps  an  in- 
telligent inventor}'  of  which  would  have  revealed  the 
lives  and  habits  of  every  dweller  in  the  house,  —  bits 
of  printed  cottons,  tea-leaves,  artificial  flower-petals 
faded  and  worthless,  vegetable  parings,  papers,  scraps 
of  metal.  At  ever}'  sweep  of  her  broom  the  old  woman 
bared  the  soul  of  the  gutter,  that  black  fissure  on  which 
a  porter's  mind  is  ever  bent.  The  poor  lover  examined 
this  scene,  like  a  thousand  others  which  our  heaving 
Paris  presents  daily ;  but  he  examined  it  mechani- 
cally, as  a  man  absorbed  in  thought,  when,  happening 


Ferragus.  39 

to  look  up,  he  found  himself  all  but  nose  to  nose  with 
a  man  who  had  just  entered  the  gateway. 

In  appearance  this  man  was  a  beggar,  but  not  the 
Parisian    beggar,  —  that  creation   without   a   name  in 
human  language  ;   no,   this  man  formed  another  type, 
while  presenting  on  the  outside  all  the  ideas  suggested 
by  the  word  "  beggar."     He  was  not  marked  by  those 
original    Parisian    characteristics    which   strike    us    so 
forcibly   in   the    paupers    whom    Charlet   was   fond  of 
representing,  with  his  rare  luck  in  observation,  —  coarse 
faces   reeking  of  mud,   hoarse   voices,    reddened   and 
bulbous  noses,  mouths  devoid  of  teeth  but  menacing ; 
humble  yet  terrible  beings,  in  whom  a  profound  intel- 
ligence shining  in   their  eyes  seems  like  a  contradic- 
tion.    Some  of  these  bold  vagabonds  have  blotched, 
cracked,  vein}^  skins  ;  their  foreheads  are  covered  with 
wrinkles,  their  liair  scantv  and  dirty,  like  a  wig  thrown 
on  a  dust-heap.     All  are  gay  in  their  degradation,  and 
degraded  in  their  joys  ;  all  are  marked  with  the  stamp 
of  debaucherj',    casting   their   silence    as  a  reproach ; 
their  very  attitude  revealing  fearful  thoughts.     Placed 
between  crime  and  beggar}'  they  have  no  compunctions, 
and  circle  prudently  around  the  scaffold  without  mount- 
ing it,  innocent  in  the  midst  of  crime,  and  vicious  in 
their  innocence.     They  often  cause  a  laugh,  but  they 
alwa^'s  cause  reflection.     One  represents  to  3'ou  civili- 
zation stunted,  repressed  ;  he  comprehends  everything, 


40  Ferragus. 

the  honor  of  the  galleys,  patriotism,  virtue,  the  malice 
of  a  vulgar  crime,  or  the  fine  astuteness  of  elegant 
wickedness.  Another  is  resigned,  a  perfect  mimer, 
but  stupid.  All  have  slight  3'earnings  after  order  and 
work,  but  they  are  pushed  back  into  their  mire  by 
society,  which  makes  no  inquiry  as  to  what  there  ma}- 
be  of  great  men,  poets,  intrepid  souls,  and  splendid 
organizations  among  these  vagrants,  these  gypsies  of 
Paris ;  a  people  eminentl}^  good  and  eminently  evil  — 
like  all  the  masses  who  suffer  —  accustomed  to  endure 
unspeakable  woes,  and  whom  a  fatal  power  holds  CA^er 
down  to  the  level  of  the  mire.  The}^  all  have  a  dream, 
a  hope,  a  happiness,  —  cards,  lottery,  or  wine. 

There  was  nothing  of  all  this  in  the  personage  who 
now  leaned  carelessly  against  the  wall  in  front  of  Mon- 
sieur de  Maulincour,  like  some  fantastic  idea  drawn 
by  an  artist  on  the  back  of  a  canvas  the  front  of 
which  is  turned  to  the  wall.  This  tall,  spare  man, 
whose  leaden  visage  expressed  some  deep  but  chilling 
thought,  dried  up  all  pity  in  the  hearts  of  those  who 
looked  at  him  by  the  scowling  look  and  the  sarcastic 
attitude  which  announced  an  intention  of  treating  ever}' 
man  as  an  equal.  His  face  was  of  a  dirt}'  white,  and 
his  wrinkled  skull,  denuded  of  hair,  bore  a  vague  re- 
semblance to  a  block  of  granite.  A  few  gray  locks  on 
either  side  of  his  head  fell  straight  to  the  collar  of  his 
greasy   coat,   which   was   buttoned   to   the   chin.     He 


Ferragus.  41 

resembled  both  Voltaire  and  Don  Quixote ;  he  was, 
apparently,  scoffing  but  melancholy,  full  of  disdain 
and  philosoph}',  but  half-craz}'.  He  seemed  to  have 
no  shirt.  His  beard  was  long.  A  rust}'  black  cravat, 
much  worn  and  ragged,  exposed  a  protuberant  neck 
deeply  furrowed,  with  veins  as  thick  as  cords.  A 
large  brown  circle  like  a  bruise  was  strongly  marked 
beneath  his  eyes.  He  seemed  to  be  at  least  sixt}' 
years  old.  His  hands  were  white  and  clean.  His 
boots  were  trodden  down  at  the  heels,  and  full  of 
holes.  A  pair  of  blue  trousers,  mended  in  various 
places,  were  covered  with  a  species  of  fluff  which 
made  them  offensive  to  the  eye.  Whether  it  was 
that  his  damp  clothes  exhaled  a  fetid  odor,  or  that 
he  had  in  his  normal  condition  the  ''poor  smell" 
which  belongs  to  Parisian  tenements,  just  as  offices, 
sacristies,  and  hospitals  have  their  own  peculiar  and 
rancid  fetidness,  of  which  no  words  can  give  the  least 
idea,  or  whether  some  other  reason  affected  them, 
those  in  the  vicinit}'  of  this  man  immediately  moved 
away  and  left  him  alone.  He  cast  upon  them  and 
also  upon  the  officer  a  calm,  expressionless  look,  the 
celebrated  look  of  Monsieur  de  Tallej'rand,  a  dull, 
wan  glance,  without  warmth,  a  species  of  impene- 
trable veil,  beneath  which  a  strong  soul  hides  profound 
emotions  and  close  estimation  of  men  and  things  and 
events.     Not  a  fold  of  his  face  quivered.     His  mouth 


42  Ferragus. 

and  forehead  were  impassible ;  but  his  ej'es  moved 
and  lowered  themselves  with  a  noble,  almost  tragic 
slowness.  There  was,  in  fact,  a  whole  drama  in  the 
motion  of  those  withered  eyelids. 

The  aspect  of  this  stoical  figure  gave  rise  in  Mon- 
sieur de  Maulincour  to  one  of  those  vagabond  reveries 
which  begin  with  a  common  question  and  end  b^' 
comprising  a  world  of  thought.  The  storm  was  past. 
Monsieur  de  Maulincour  presentl}'  saw  no  more  of 
the  man  than  the  tail  of  his  coat  as  it  brushed  the 
gate-post,  but  as  he  turned  to  leave  his  own  place 
he  noticed  at  his  feet  a  letter  which  must  have  fallen 
from  the  unknown  beggar  when  he  took,  as  the  baron 
had  seen  him  take,  a  handkerchief  from  his  pocket. 
Tiie  3'oung  man  picked  it  up,  and  read,  involuntaril}', 
the  address  :  "  To  Mosieur  Ferragusse,  Rue  des  Grands- 
Augustains,  corner  of  rue  Soly." 

The  letter  bore  no  postmark,  and  the  address  pre- 
vented Monsieur  de  Maulincour  from  following  the 
beggar  and  returning  it ;  for  there  are  few  passions 
that  will  not  fail  in  rectitude  in  the  long  run.  The 
baron  had  a  presentiment  of  the  opportunity^  afforded 
by  this  windfall.  He  determined  to  keep  the  letter, 
which  would  give  him  the  right  to  enter  the  mysterious 
house  to  return  it  to  the  strange  man,  not  doubting  that 
he  lived  there.  Suspicions,  vague  as  the  first  faint 
gleams  of  daylight,  made  him  fancy  relations  between 


Ferragus.  43 

this  man  and  Madame  Jules.  A  jealous  lover  supposes 
everything ;  and  it  is  by  supposing  everything  and 
selecting  the  most  probable  of  their  conjectures  that 
judges,  spies,  lovers,  and  observers  get  at  the  truth  they 
are  looking  for. 

*'  Is  the  letter  for  him?  Is  it  from  Madame  Jules?  " 
His  restless  imagination  tossed  a  thousand  such 
questions  to  him  ;  but  when  he  read  the  first  words 
of  the  letter  he  smiled.  Here  it  is,  textually,  in  all 
the  simplicit}'  of  its  artless  phrases  and  its  miserable 
orthography,  —  a  letter  to  which  it  would  be  impossible 
to  add  anything,  or  to  take  anything  awa}',  unless  it 
were  the  letter  itself.  But  we  have  yielded  to  the 
necessity  of  punctuating  it.  In  the  original  there  were 
neither  commas  nor  stops  of  any  kind,  not  even  notes 
of  exclamation,  —  a  fact  which  tends  to  undervalue  the 
system  of  notes  and  dashes  by  which  modern  authors 
have  endeavored  to  depict  the  great  disasters  of  all  the 
passions :  — 

Henry,  —  Among  the  manny  sacrifisis  I  imposed  upon 
myself  for  your  sake  was  that  of  not  giving  you  anny  news 
of  me ;  but  an  iresistible  voise  now  compells  me  to  let  you 
know  the  wrong  you  have  done  me.  I  know  beforehand 
that  your  soul  hardened  in  vise  will  not  pitty  me.  Your 
heart  is  deaf  to  feeling.  Is  it  deaf  to  the  cries  of  nature  ? 
But  what  matter  ?  I  must  tell  you  to  what  a  dredful  point 
you  are  gilty,  and  the  horror  of  the  position  to  which  you 
have  brought  me.     Henry,  you  knew  what  I  sufered  from 


44  Ferragus. 

my  first  wrong-doing,  and  yet  you  plunged  me  into  the 
same  misery,  and  then  abbandoned  me  to  my  dispair  and 
sufering.  Yes,  I  will  say  it,  the  belif  I  had  that  you  loved 
me  and  esteemed  me  gave  me  corage  to  bare  my  fate.  But 
now,  what  have  I  left  ?  Have  you  not  made  me  loose  all 
that  was  dear  to  me,  all  that  held  me  to  life  ;  parents, 
f rends,  onor,  reputation,  —  all,  I  have  sacrifised  all  to  you, 
and  nothing  is  left  me  but  shame,  oprobrum,  and  —  I  say 
this  without  blushing  —  poverty.  Nothing  was  wanting  to 
my  misfortunes  but  the  sertainty  of  your  contempt  and 
hatred ;  and  now  I  have  them  I  find  the  corage  that  my 
project  requires.  My  desision  is  made ;  the  onor  of  my 
famly  commands  it.  I  must  put  an  end  to  my  suferins. 
Make  no  remarks  upon  my  conduct,  Henry ;  it  is  orful,  I 
know,  but  my  condition  obbliges  me.  Without  help,  without 
suport,  without  one  frend  to  comfort  me,  can  I  live  }  ISTo. 
Fate  has  desided  for  me.  So  in  two  days,  Henry,  two 
days,  Ida  will  have  seased  to  be  worthy  of  your  esteem. 
But  hear  the  oath  I  make,  that  my  conshence  is  at  peace, 
for  I  have  never  seased  to  be  worthy  of  your  regard.  Oh, 
Henry !  oh,  my  frend !  for  I  can  never  change  to  you, 
promise  me  to  forgive  me  for  what  I  am  going  to  do.  Do 
not  forget  that  you  have  driven  me  to  it ;  it  is  your  work, 
and  you  must  judge  it.  May  heven  not  punish  you  for  all 
your  crimes.  I  ask  your  pardon  on  my  knees,  for  I  feel 
nothing  is  wanting  to  my  misery  but  the  sorow  of  knowing 
you  unhappy.  In  spite  of  the  poverty  I  am  in  I  shall  refuse 
all  help  from  you.  If  you  had  loved  me  I  would  have  taken 
all  from  your  f rendship ;  but  a  benfit  given  by  pitty  my  soul 
refussis.  I  would  be  baser  to  take  it  than  he  who  ofered  it. 
I  have  one  favor  to  ask  of  you.  I  don't  know  how  long  I 
must  stay  at  Madame  Meynardie's ;  be  genrous  enough  not 


Ferragus.  45 

to  come  there.  Your  last  two  vissits  did  me  a  harm  I  can- 
not get  ofer.  I  cannot  enter  into  particlers  about  that  con- 
duct of  yours.  You  hate  me,  —  you  said  so ;  that  word  is 
writen  on  my  heart,  and  f reeses  it  with  fear.  Alas  !  it  is 
now,  when  I  need  all  my  corage,  all  my  strength,  that  my 
facculties  abbandon  me.  Henry,  my  frend,  before  I  put  a 
barrier  forever  between  us,  give  me  a  last  pruf  of  your 
esteem.  Write  me,  answer  me,  say  you  respect  me  still, 
though  you  have  seased  to  love  me.  My  eyes  are  worthy 
still  to  look  into  yours,  but  I  do  not  ask  an  interfew ;  I  fear 
my  weakness  and  my  love.  But  for  pitty's  sake  write  me  a 
line  at  once ;  it  will  give  me  the  corage  I  need  to  meet  my 
trubbles.  Farewell,  orther  of  all  my  woes,  but  the  only  frend 

my  heart  has  chosen  and  will  never  forget. 

Ida. 

This  life  of  a  young  girl,  with  its  love  betrayed,  its 
fatal  joys,  its  pangs,  its  miseries,  and  its  horrible 
resignation,  summed  up  in  a  few  words,  this  humble 
poem,  essentially  Parisian,  written  on  dirty  paper, 
influenced  for  a  passing  moment  Monsieur  de  Maulin- 
cour.  He  asked  himself  whether  this  Ida  might  not 
be  some  poor  relation  of  Madame  Jules,  and  that 
strange  rendezvous,  which  be  had  witnessed  by  chance, 
the  mere  necessity  of  a  charitable  effort.  But  could 
that  old  pauper  have  seduced  this  Ida?  There  was 
something  impossible  in  the  very  idea.  Wandering  in 
this  labyrinth  of  reflections,  which  crossed,  recrossed, 
and  obliterated  one  another,  the  baron  reached  the  rue 
Pagevin,  and  saw  a  hackney-coach  standing  at  the  end 


46  Ferragus. 

of  the  rue  des  Vieux-Angnstins  where  it  enters  the  rue 
Montmartre.  All  waiting  hackne^'-coaches  now  had 
an  interest  for  him. 

"  Can  she  be  there?"  he  thought  to  himself,  and  his 
heart  beat  fast  with  a  hot  and  feverish  throbbing. 

He  pushed  the  little  door  with  the  bell,  but  he  low- 
ered his  head  as  he  did  so,  obejing  a  sense  of  shame, 
for  a  voice  said  to  him  secretly :  — 

''  Why  are  3'ou  putting  your  foot  into  this  mystery?" 

He  went  up  a  few  steps,  and  found  himself  face  to 
face  with  the  old  portress. 

'*  Monsieur  Ferragus?  "  he  said. 

"Don't  know  him." 

"  Does  n't  Monsieur  Ferragus  live  here?  " 

"  Have  n't  such  a  name  in  the  house." 

"  But,  my  good  woman  —  " 

"I'm  not  3'our  good  woman,  monsieur,  I'm  the 
portress." 

"But,  madame,"  persisted  the  baron,  "I  have  a 
letter  for  Monsieur  Ferragus." 

"  Ah  !  if  monsieur  has  a  letter,"  she  said,  changing 
her  tone,  "  that 's  another  matter.  Will  3'ou  let  me 
see  it  —  that  letter?" 

Auguste  showed  the  folded  letter.  The  old  woman 
shook  her  head  with  a  doubtful  air,  hesitated,  seemed 
to  wish  to  leave  the  lodge  and  inform  the  mysterious 
Ferragus  of  his  unexpected  visitor,  but  finally  said  :  — 


Ferragus,  47 

"Very  good;  go  up,  monsieur.  I  suppose  you 
know  the  way?" 

Without  replying  to  this  remark,  which  he  thought 
might  be  a  trap,  the  young  officer  ran  lightly  up  the 
stairway,  and  rang  loudly  at  the  door  of  the  second 
floor.     His  lover's  instinct  told  him,  "  She  is  there." 

The  beggar  of  the  porch,  Ferragus,  the  "  orther"  of 
Ida's  woes,  opened  the  door  himself.  He  appeared  in 
a  flowered  dressing-gown,  white  flannel  trousers,  his 
feet  in  embroidered  slippers,  and  his  face  washed  clean 
of  stains.  Madame  Jules,  whose  head  projected  be- 
yond the  casing  of  the  door  into  the  next  room,  turned 
pale  and  dropped  into  a  chair. 

"What  is  the  matter,  madame?"  cried  the  officer, 
springing  toward  her. 

But  Ferragus  stretched  forth  an  arm  and  flung  the 
intruder  back  with  so  sharp  a  thrust  that  Auguste 
fancied  he  had  received  a  blow  from  an  iron  bar  full 
on  his  chest. 

"Back!  monsieur,"  said  the  man.  "  What  do  you 
want  here  ?  For  five  or  six  days  you  have  been  roam- 
ing about  the  neighborhood.     Are  3'ou  a  sp}^  ?  " 

"  Are  you  Monsieur  Ferragus?"  said  the  baron. 

"  No,  monsieur," 

"Nevertheless,"  continued  Auguste,  "it  is  to  you 
that  I  must  return  this  paper  which  you  dropped  in  the 
gatewa}"  beneath  which  we  both  took  refuge  from  the 


48  Ferragus. 

While  speaking  and  offering  the  letter  to  the  man, 
Auguste  did  not  refrain  from  casting  an  eyo.  around 
the  room  where  Ferragus  received  him.  It  was  very 
well  arranged,  though  simply.  A  fire  burned  on  the 
hearth  ;  and  near  it  was  a  table  with  food  upon  it, 
which  was  served  more  sumptuously  than  agreed  with 
the  apparent  condition  of  the  man  and  the  poorness  of 
his  lodging.  On  a  sofa  in  the  next  room,  which  he 
could  see  through  the  doorway,  lay  a  heap  of  gold,  and 
he  heard  a  sound  which  could  be  no  other  than  that  of 
a  woman  weeping. 

"•  The  paper  belongs  to  me  ;  I  am  much  obliged  to 
you,"  said  the  mj'sterious  man,  turning  away  as  if  to 
make  the  baron  understand  that  he  must  go. 

Too  curious  himself  to  take  much  note  of  the  deep 
examination  of  which  he  was  himself  the  object, 
Auguste  did  not  see  the  half-magnetic  glance  with 
which  this  strange  being  seemed  to  pierce  him  ;  had 
he  encountered  that  basilisk  eye  he  might  have  felt 
the  danger  that  encompassed  him.  Too  passionately 
excited  to  think  of  himself,  Auguste  bowed,  went  down 
the  stairs,  and  returned  home,  striving  to  find  a  mean- 
ing in  the  connection  of  these  three  persons,  —  Ida, 
Ferragus,  and  Madame  Jules  ;  an  occupation  equiva- 
lent to  that  of  trying  to  arrange  the  man3'-cornered 
bits  of  a  Chinese  puzzle  without  possessing  the  key  to 
the  game.     But  Madame  Jules  had  seen  him,  Madame 


Ferragus.  49 

Jules  went  there,  Madame  Jules  had  lied  to  him. 
Maulincour  determined  to  go  and  see  her  the  next  da}'. 
She  could  not  refuse  his  visit,  for  he  was  now  her 
accomplice  ;  he  was  hands  and  feet  in  the  mysterious 
affair,  and  she  knew  it.  Already  he  felt  himself  a 
sultan,  and  thought  of  demanding  from  Madame  Jules, 
imperiously,  all  her  secrets. 

In  those  days  Paris  was  seized  with  a  building-fever. 
If  Paris  is  a  monster,  it  is  certainl}'  a  most  mania- 
ridden  monster.  It  becomes  enamoured  of  a  thousand 
fancies  :  sometimes  it  has  a  mania  for  building,  like  a 
great  seigneur  who  loves  a  trowel ;  soon  it  abandons 
the  trowel  and  becomes  all  military  ;  it  arrays  itself 
from  head  to  foot  as  a  national  guard,  and  drills  and 
smokes ;  suddenly',  jt  abandons  militar}-  manoeuvres 
and  flings  awa}'  cigars;  it  is  commercial,  care-worn, 
falls  into  bankruptcy,  sells  its  furniture  on  the  place 
du  Chatelet,  files  its  schedule  ;  but  a  few  days  later, 
lo !  it  has  arranged  its  affairs  and  is  giving  fetes  and 
dances.  One  day  it  eats  barley-sugar  by  the  mouthful, 
b}-  the  handful;  yesterday  it  bought  "papier  Wey- 
nen  ; "  to-da}'  the  monster's  teeth  ache,  and  it  applies 
to  its  walls  an  alexipharmatic  to  mitigate  their  damp- 
ness ;  to-morrow  it  will  lay  in  a  provision  of  pectoral 
paste.  It  has  its  manias  for  the  month,  for  the  season, 
for  the  3'ear,  like  its  manias  of  a  da}'. 

So,  at  the  moment  of  which  we  speak,  all  the  world 

4 


50  Ferragus. 

was  building  or  pulling  down  something,  —  people 
hardl}"  knew  what  as  yet.  There  were  very  few  streets 
in  which  high  scaffoldings  on  long  poles  could  not  be 
seen,  fastened  from  floor  to  floor  with  transverse  blocks 
inserted  into  holes  in  the  walls  on  which  the  planks 
were  laid,  —  a  frail  construction,  shaken  by  the  brick- 
layers, but  held  together  b}'  ropes,  white  with  plaster, 
and  insecurely  protected  from  the  wheels  of  carriages 
by  the  breastwork  of  planks  which  the  law  requires 
round  all  such  buildings.  There  is  something  maritime 
in  these  masts,  and  ladders,  and  cordage,  even  in  the 
shouts  of  the  masons.  About  a  dozen  yards  IVom  the 
hotel  Maulincour,  one  of  these  ephemeral  barriers  was 
erected  before  a  house  which  was  then  being  built  of 
blocks  of  free-stone.  The  da}'  after  the  event  we  have 
just  related,  at  the  moment  when  the  Baron  de  Maulin- 
cour was  passing  this  scaffolding  in  his  cabriolet  on  his 
way  to  see  Madame  Jules,  a  stone,  two  feet  square, 
which  was  being  raised  to  the  upper  store}'  of  this 
building,  got  loose  from  the  ropes  and  fell,  crushing 
the  baron's  servant  who  was  behind  the  cabriolet.  A 
cr}'  of  horror  shook  both  the  scaffold  and  the  masons  ; 
one  of  them,  apparently  unable  to  keep  his  grasp  on  a 
pole,  was  in  danger  of  death,  and  seemed  to  have  been 
touched  by  the  stone  as  it  passed  him. 

A  crowd  collected  rapidl}' ;  the  masons  came  down 
the  ladders  swearinir  and  insistins:  that   Monsieur  de 


Ferrayus.  51 

Maulincour's  cabriolet  had  been  driven  against  the 
boarding  and  so  had  shaken  their  crane.  Two  inches 
more  and  the  stone  would  have  fallen  on  the  baron's 
head.  The  groom  was  dead,  the  carriage  shattered. 
'T  was  an  event  for  the  whole  neighborhood,  the  news- 
papers told  of  it.  Monsieur  de  Maulincour,  certain 
that  he  had  not  touched  the  boarding,  complained  ; 
the  case  went  to  court.  Inquir}'  being  made,  it  was 
shown  that  a  small  boy,  armed  with  a  lath,  had 
mounted  guard  and  called  to  all  foot-passengers  to  keep 
awa}'.  The  affair  ended  there.  Monsieur  de  Maulin- 
cour obtained  no  redress.  He  had  lost  his  servant,  and 
was  confined  to  his  bed  for  some  da3's,  for  the  back  of 
the  carriage  when  shattered  had  bruised  him  severe!}-, 
and  the  nervous  shock  of  the  sudden  surprise  gave  him 
a  fever.  He  did  not,  therefore,  go  to  see  Madame  Jules. 
Ten  daj's  after  this  event,  he  left  the  house  for  the 
first  time,  in  his  repaired  cabriolet,  when,  as  he  drove 
down  the  rue  de  Bourgogne  and  was  close  to  the  sewer 
opposite  to  the  Chamber  of  Deputies,  the  axle-tree 
broke  in  two,  and  the  baron  was  driving  so  rapidl}'  that 
the  breakage  would  have  caused  the  two  wheels  to 
come  together  with  force  enough  to  break  his  head, 
liad  it  not  been  for  the  resistance  of  the  leather  hood. 
Nevertheless,  he  was  badly  wounded  in  the  side.  For 
the  second  time  in  ten  days  he  was  carried  home  in  a 
fainting  condition  to   liis  terrified  grandmother.     This 


52  Fcrragus. 

second  accident  gave  him  a  feeling  of  distrust;  he 
thought,  though  vaguel}',  of  Ferragus  and  Madame 
Jules.  To  throw  light  on  these  suspicions  he  had  the 
broken  axle  brought  to  his  room  and  sent  for  his 
carriage-maker.  The  man  examined  the  axle  and  the 
fracture,  and  proved  two  things :  First,  the  axle  was 
not  made  in  his  workshop ;  he  furnished  none  that  did 
not  bear  the  initials  of  his  name  on  the  iron.  But  he 
could  not  explain  bj  what  means  this  axle  had  been 
substituted  for  the  other.  Secondl}',  the  breakage  of 
the  suspicious  axle  was  caused  b}"  a  hollow  space  hav- 
ing been  blown  in  it  and  a  straw  very  cleverly  inserted. 

"Eh!  Monsieur  le  baron,  whoever  did  that  was 
malicious!"  he  said;  "anyone  would  swear,  to  look 
at  it,  that  the  axle  was  sound." 

Monsieur  de  Maulincour  begged  the  carriage-maker 
to  sa}^  nothing  of  the  affair  ;  but  he  felt  himself  warned. 
These  two  attempts  at  murder  were  planned  with  an 
ability  which  denoted  the  enmit}-  of  intelligent  minds. 

"It  is  war  to  the  death/'  he  said  to  himself,  as  he 
tossed  in  his  bed, — "a  war  of  savages,  skulking  in 
ambush,  of  trickery  and  treacher}',  declared  in  the 
name  of  Madame  Jules.  What  sort  of  man  is  this 
to  whom  she  belongs?  What  species  of  power  does 
this  Ferragus  wield  ?  " 

Monsieur  de  Maulincour,  though  a  soldier  and  brave 
man,   could  not  repress  a  shudder.     In  the  midst  of 


Ferr  agios.  53 

many  thoughts  that  now  assailed  him,  there  was  one 
against  which  he  felt  he  had  neither  defence  nor  cour- 
age :  might  not  poison  be  emplo^'ed  erelong  by  his 
secret  enemies?  Under  the  influence  of  fears,  which 
his  momentar}^  weakness  and  fever  and  low  diet  in- 
creased, he  sent  for  an  old  woman  long  attached  to 
the  service  of  his  grandmother,  whose  affection  for 
himself  was  one  of  those  semi-maternal  sentiments 
which  are  the  sublime  of  the  commonplace.  Without 
confiding  in  her  w^holl}',  he  charged  her  to  bu}'  secretly 
and  daily,  in  different  localities,  the  food  he  needed  ; 
telling  her  to  keep  it  under  lock  and  key  and  bring 
it  to  him  herself,  not  allowing  any  one,  no  matter  who, 
to  approach  her  while  preparing  it.  He  took  the  most 
minute  precautions  to  protect  himself  against  that  form 
of  death.  He  was  ill  in  his  bed  and  alone,  and  he 
had  therefore  the  leisure  to  think  of  his  own  security, 
—  the  one  necessity  clear-sighted  enough  to  enable 
human  egotism  to  forget  nothing ! 

But  the  unfortunate  man  had  poisoned  his  own  life 
by  this  dread,  and,  in  spite  of  himself,  suspicion  dyed 
all  his  hours  with  its  gloomy  tints.  These  two  lessons 
of  attempted  assassination  did  teach  him,  however,  the 
value  of  one  of  the  virtues  most  necessary  to  a  public 
man ;  he  saw  the  wise  dissimulation  that  must  be  prac- 
tised in  dealing  with  the  great  interests  of  life.  To 
be  silent  about  our  own  secret  is  nothing ;   but  to  be 


54  Ferragus. 

silent  from  the  start,  to  forget  a  fact  as  Ali  Pacha 
did  for  thirt}'  3'ears  in  order  to  be  sure  of  a  vengeance 
waited  for  for  thirt}''  years,  is  a  fine  study  in  a  land  where 
there  are  few  men  who  can  keep  their  own  counsel  for 
thirt}'  days.  Monsieur  de  Maulincour  literall3'  lived  onlj- 
through  Madame  Jules.  He  was  perpetuall}'  absorbed  in 
a  sober  examination  into  the  means  he  ought  to  employ 
to  triumph  in  this  mysterious  struggle  with  these  mys- 
terious persons.  His  secret  passion  for  that  woman 
grew  by  reason  of  all  these  obstacles.  Madame  Jules 
was  ever  there,  erect,  in  the  midst  of  his  thoughts,  in 
the  centre  of  his  heart,  more  seductive  bj^  her  pre- 
sumable vices  than  by  the  positive  virtues  for  which  he 
had  made  her  his  idol. 

At  last,  anxious  to  reconnoitre  the  position  of  the 
enemy,  he  thought  he  might  without  danger  initiate  the 
vidame  into  the  secrets  of  his  situation.  The  old  com- 
mander loved  Auguste  as  a  father  loves  his  wife's  chil- 
dren ;  he  was  shrewd,  dexterous,  and  \Qvy  diplomatic. 
He  listened  to  the  baron,  shook  his  head,  and  they 
both  held  counsel.  The  worthy  vidame  did  not  share 
his  3'oung  friend's  confidence  when  Auguste  declared 
that  in  the  times  in  which  thej'  now  lived,  the  police 
and  the  government  were  able  to  lay  bare  all  mj'ste- 
ries,  and  that  if  it  were  absolutely  necessary  to  have 
recourse  to  those  powers,  he  should  find  them  most 
powerful  auxiliaries. 


Ferragus.  55 

The  old  man  replied,  gravely :  "The  police,  my 
dear  bo}',  is  the  most  incompetent  thing  on  this  earth, 
and  government  the  feeblest  in  all  matters  concerning 
individuals.  Neither  the  police  nor  the  government 
can  read  hearts.  What  we  might  reasonably  ask  of 
them  is  to  search  for  the  causes  of  an  act.  But  the 
police  and  the  government  are  both  eminently  unfit- 
ted for  that ;  the}'  lack,  essentiall}',  the  personal  in- 
terest which  reveals  all  to  him  who  wants  to  know  all. 
No  human  power  can  prevent  an  assassin  or  a  poi- 
soner from  reaching  the  heart  of  a  prince  or  the  stom- 
ach of  an  honest  man.     Passions  are  the  best  police." 

The  vidanie  strongly  advised  the  baron  to  go  to 
Ital}',  and  from  Italy  to  Greece,  from  Greece  to  Syria, 
from  S3'ria  to  Asia,  and  not  to  return  until  his  secret 
enemies  were  convinced  of  his  repentance,  and  would 
so  make  tacit  peace  with  him.  But  if  he  did  not  take 
that  course,  then  the  vidame  advised  him  to  sta}'  in 
the  house,  and  even  in  his  own  room,  where  he  would 
be  safe  from  the  attempts  of  this  man  Ferragus,  and 
not  to  leave  it  until  he  could  be  certain  of  crushing 
him. 

"We  should  never  touch  an  enem}'  until  we  can  be 
sure  of  taking  his  head  off,"  he  said,  gravel}'. 

The  old  man,  however,  promised  his  favorite  to 
employ  all  the  astuteness  with  which  Heaven  had  pro- 
vided him  (without  compromising  any  one)  in  recon- 


56  Ferragus. 

noitring  the  enemy's  ground,  and  laying  his  plans  for 
future  victory.  The  Commander  had  in  his  service  a 
retired  Figaro,  the  wiliest  monkey  that  ever  walked  in 
human  form ;  in  earlier  days  as  clever  as  a  devil, 
working  his  bod3^  like  a  galle3'-slave,  alert  as  a  thief, 
SI3'  as  a  woman,  but  now  fallen  into  the  decadence  of 
genius  for  want  of  practice  since  the  new  constitution 
of  Parisian  society,  which  has  reformed  even  the  valets 
of  comedy.  This  Scapin  emeritus  was  attached  to  his 
master  as  to  a  superior  being ;  but  the  shrewd  old 
vidame  added  a  good  round  sum  yearly  to  the  wages 
of  his  former  provost  of  gallantr}',  which  strengthened 
the  ties  of  natural  affection  by  the  bonds  of  self-inter- 
est, and  obtained  for  the  old  gentleman  as  much  care 
as  the  most  lovino;  mistress  could  bestow  on  a  sick 
friend.  It  was  this  pearl  of  the  old-fashioned  comed}'- 
valets,  relic  of  tlie  last  centur}',  auxiliar}'  incorruptible 
from  lack  of  passions  to  satisf}^,  on  whom  the  old 
vidame  and  Monsieur  de  Maulincour  now  relied. 

"  Monsieur  le  baron  will  spoil  all,"  said  the  great 
man  in  livery,  when  called  into  counsel.  "  Monsieur 
should  eat,  drink,  and  sleep  in  peace.  I  take  the  whole 
matter  upon  myself." 

Accordingly,  eight  da^s  after  the  conference,  when 
Monsieur  de  Maulincour,  perfectly  restored  to  health, 
was  breakfasting  with  his  grandmother  and  the  vidame, 
Justin  entered  to  make  his  report.     As  soon  as  the 


Ferragus.  57 

dowager  had  returned  to  her  own  apartments  he  said, 
with  that  mock  modest}'  which  men  of  talent  are  so  apt 
to  affect :  — 

"  Ferragus  is  not  the  name  of  the  enemy  wlio  is  pur- 
suing Monsieur  le  baron.  This  man  —  this  devil,  rather 
—  is  called  Gratien,  Henri,  Victor,  Jean -Joseph  Bou- 
risrnard.  The  Sieur  Gratien  Bouri^nard  is  a  former 
ship-builder,  once  ver}'  rich,  and,  above  all,  one  of  the 
handsomest  men  of  his  day  in  Paris,  —  a  Lovelace, 
capable  of  seducing  Grandison.  My  information  stops 
short  there.  He  has  been  a  simple  workman  ;  and  the 
Companions  of  the  Order  of  the  Devorants  did,  at  one 
time,  elect  him  as  their  chief,  under  the  title  of  Ferragus 
XXin.  The  police  ought  to  know  that,  if  the  police 
were  instituted  to  know  anything.  The  man  has  moved 
from  the  rue  des  Vieux-Augustins,  and  now  roosts 
rue  Joquelet,  where  Madame  Jules  Desmarets  goes 
frequently  to  see  him  ;  sometimes  her  husband,  on  his 
wa}^  to  the  Bourse,  drives  her  as  far  as  the  rue  Vivienne, 
or  she  drives  her  husband  to  the  Bourse.  Monsieur  le 
vidame  knows  about  these  things  too  well  to  want  me 
to  tell  him  if  it  is  the  husband  who  takes  the  wife,  or 
the  wife  who  takes  the  husband ;  but  Madame  Jules  is 
so  prett}',  I  'd  bet  on  her.  All  that  I  have  told  you  is 
positive.  Bourignard  often  plaj'S  at  number  129.  Sav- 
ing 3'our  presence,  monsieur,  he  's  a  rogue  w4io  loves 
women,  and  he  has  his  little  ways  like  a  man  of  con- 


58  Ferragus. 

dition.  As  for  the  rest,  he  wins  sometimes,  disguises 
himself  like  an  actor,  paints  his  face  to  look  like  an}'- 
thing  he  chooses,  and  lives,  I  may  sa}',  the  most  origi- 
nal life  in  the  world.  I  don't  doubt  he  has  a  good 
man}'  lodgings,  for  most  of  the  time  he  manages  to 
evade  what  Monsieur  le  vidame  calls  ''  parliamentar}' 
investigations."  If  monsieur  wishes,  he  could  be  dis- 
posed of  honorabl}',  seeing  what  his  habits  are.  It  is 
always  eas}'  to  get  rid  of  a  man  who  loves  women. 
However,  this  capitalist  talks  about  moving  again. 
Have  Monsieur  le  vidame  and  Monsieur  le  baron  any 
other  commands  to  give  me  ?  " 

*' Justin,  I  am  satisfied  with  you;  don't  go  any  far- 
ther in  the  matter  without  my  orders,  but  keep  a  close 
watch  here,  so  that  Monsieur  le  baron  may  have  noth- 
ing to  fear." 

"  My  dear  boy,"  continued  the  vidame,  when  the}' 
were  alone,  "'  go  back  to  your  old  life,  and  forget 
Madame  Jules." 

"No,  no,"  said  Auguste ;  "I  will  never  yield  to 
Gratien  Bourignard.  I  will  have  him  bound  hand  and 
foot,  and  Madame  Jules  also." 

That  evening  the  Baron  Auguste  de  Maulincour, 
recently  promoted  to  higher  rank  in  the  company  of 
the  Body-Guard  of  the  king,  went  to  a  ball  given  by 
Madame  la  Duchesse  de  Berry  at  the  Ely  see-Bourbon. 
There,  certainly,  no  danger  could  lurk  for  him ;  and 


Ferragus.  59 

3'et,  before  he  left  the  palace,  he  had  an  affair  of  honor 
on  his  hands,  —  an  affair  it  was  impossible  to  settle 
except  by  a  duel. 

His  adversary,  the  Marquis  de  Ronquerolles,  con- 
sidered that  he  had  strong  reasons  to  complain  of 
Monsieur  de  Maulincour,  who  had  given  some  ground 
for  it  during  his  former  intimacy  with  Monsieur  de 
Ronquerolles'  sister,  the  Comtesse  de  Serizy.  That 
lad\',  the  one  who  detested  German  sentimentalit}', 
was  all  the  more  exacting  in  the  matter  of  pruder}'.  By 
one  of  those  inexplicable  fatalities,  Auguste  now  uttered 
a  harmless  jest  which  Madame  de  Seriz}'  took  amiss, 
and  her  brotlier  resented  it.  The  discussion  took  place 
in  the  corner  of  a  room,  in  a  low  voice.  In  good  soci- 
ety, adversaries  never  raise  their  voices.  The  next 
day  the  faubourg  Saint-Germain  and  the  Chateau 
talked  over  the  aff'air.  Madame  de  Serizy  was  warml}' 
defended,  and  all  the  blame  was  laid  on  Maulincour. 
August  personages  interfered.  Seconds  of  the  high- 
est distinction  were  imposed  on  Messieurs  de  Maulin- 
cour and  de  Ronquerolles  and  every  precaution  was 
taken  on  the  ground  that  no  one  should  be  killed. 

When  Auguste  found  himself  face  to  face  with  his 
antagonist,  a  man  of  pleasure,  to  whom  no  one  could 
possibl}'  deny  sentiments  of  the  highest  honor,  he  felt 
it  was  impossible  to  believe  him  the  instrument  of 
Ferragus,    chief  of  the   Devorants ;    and  3'et   he    was 


60  Ferragus. 

compelled,  as  it  were,  by  an  inexplicable  presentiment, 
to  question  the  marquis. 

"Messieurs,"  he  said  to  the  seconds,  "I  certainly 
do  not  refuse  to  meet  the  fire  of  Monsieur  de  Ron- 
querolles  ;  but  before  doing  so,  I  here  declare  that  I 
was  to  blame,  and  I  offer  him  whatever  excuses  he 
may  desire,  and  publicl}^  if  he  wishes  it ;  because  when 
the  matter  concerns  a  woman,  nothing,  I  think,  can 
degrade  a  man  of  honor.  I  therefore  appeal  to  his 
generosity  and  good  sense ;  is  there  not  something 
rather  silly  in  fighting  without  a  cause  ?  " 

Monsieur  de  RonqueroUes  would  not  allow  of  this 
way  of  ending  the  affair,  and  then  the  baron,  his  sus- 
picions revived,  walked  up  to  him. 

"  Well,  then  !  Monsieur  le  marquis,"  he  said,  "pledge 
me,  in  presence  of  these  gentlemen,  your  word  as  a 
gentleman  that  you  have  no  other  reason  for  vengeance 
than  that  you  have  chosen  to  put  forward." 

"'•  Monsieur,  that  is  a  question  you  have  no  right  to 
ask." 

So  saying.  Monsieur  de  RonqueroUes  took  his  place. 
It  was  agreed,  in  advance,  that  the  adversaries  were 
to  be  satisfied  with  one  exchange  of  shots.  Monsieur 
de  RonqueroUes,  in  spite  of  the  great  distance  deter- 
mined by  the  seconds,  which  seemed  to  make  the  death 
of  either  party  problematical,  if  not  impossible,  brought 
down  the  baron.     The  ball  went  through  the  latter's 


Ferragus.  61 

liod}"  just  below  the  heart,  but  fortunately  without 
doing  vital  injury. 

"You  aimed  too  well,  monsieur,"  said  the  baron, 
"  to  be  avenging  onh'  a  paltry  quarrel." 

And  he  fainted.  Monsieur  de  RonqueroUes,  who 
believed  him  to  be  a  dead  man,  smiled  sardonically  as 
he  heard  those  words. 

After  a  fortnight,  during  which  time  the  dowager 
and  the  vidarae  gave  him  those  cares  of  old  age  the  se- 
cret of  which  is  in  the  hands  of  long  experience  only, 
the  baron  began  to  return  to  life.  But  one  morning 
his  grandmother  dealt  him  a  crushing  blow,  b}'  reveal- 
ing anxieties  to  which,  in  her  last  da3's,  she  was  now 
subjected.  She  showed  him  a  letter  signed  F,  in  which 
the  history  of  her  grandson's  secret  espionage  was  re- 
counted step  by  step.  The  letter  accused  Monsieur  de 
Maulincour  of  actions  that  were  unworthy  of  a  man  of 
honor.  He  had,  it  said,  placed  an  old  woman  at  the 
stand  of  hacknej-coaches  in  the  rue  de  Menars  ;  an  old 
spy,  who  pretended  to  sell  water  from  her  cask  to  the 
coachmen,  but  who  was  really  there  to  watch  the  ac- 
tions of  Madame  Jules  Desmarets.  He  had  spied 
upon  the  daily  life  of  a  most  inoftensive  man,  in  order 
to  detect  his  secrets,  —  secrets  on  which  depended  the 
lives  of  three  persons.  He  had  brought  upon  himself 
a  relentless  struggle,  in  which,  although  he  had  escaped 
with   life   three   times,    he   must   inevitably   succumb. 


62  Ferragus. 

because  his  death  had  been  sworn  and  would  be  com- 
passed if  all  human  means  were  employed  upon  it. 
Monsieur  de  Maulincour  could  no  longer  escape  his 
fate  by  even  promising  to  respect  the  mysterious  life 
of  these  three  persons,  because  it  was  impossible  to 
believe  the  word  of  a  gentleman  who  had  fallen  to  the 
level  of  a  police-spy  :  and  for  what  reason  ?  Merely  to 
trouble  the  respectable  life  of  an  innocent  woman  and 
a  harmless  old  man. 

The  letter  itself  was  nothing  to  Auguste  in  compari- 
son with  the  tender  reproaches  of  his  grandmother.  To 
lack  respect  to  a  woman !  to  spy  upon  her  actions 
without  a  right  to  do  so !  Ought  a  man  ever  to  spy 
upon  a  woman  whom  he  loved?  —  in  short,  she  poured 
out  a  torrent  of  those  excellent  reasons  which  prove 
nothing ;  and  they  put  the  3'oung  baron,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  into  one  of  those  great  human  furies  in 
which  are  born,  and  from  which  issue  the  most  vital 
actions  of  a  man's  life. 

"  Since  it  is  war  to  the  knife,"  he  said  in  conclusion, 
"I  shall  kill  m}'  enemj'  by  any  means  that  I  can  laj' 
hold  of." 

The  vidame  went  immediately,  at  Auguste's  request, 
to  the  chief  of  the  private  police  of  Paris,  and  without 
bringing  Madame  Jules'  name  or  person  into  the  narra- 
tive, although  they  were  really  the  gist  of  it,  he  made 
the  official  aware  of  the  fears  of  the  family  of  Maulin- 


Ferrarjus.  63 

cour  about  this  mysterious  person  who  was  bold  enough 
to  swear  the  death  of  an  officer  of  tlie  Guards,  in  de- 
fiance of  the  law  and  the  poUce.  The  chief  pushed  up 
his  green  spectacles  in  amazement,  blew  his  nose  sev- 
eral times,  and  offered  snuff  to  the  vidame,  who,  to 
save  his  dignity,  pretended  not  to  use  tobacco,  although 
his  own  nose  was  discolored  with  it.  Then  the  chief 
took  notes  and  promised,  Vidocq  and  his  spies  aiding, 
to  send  in  a  report  witliin  a  few  da3's  to  the  Maulincour 
family,  assuring  them  meantime  that  there  were  no 
secrets  for  the  police  of  Paris. 

A  few  days  after  this  the  police  official  called  to 
see  the  vidame  at  the  Hotel  de  Maulincour,  where 
he  found  the  young  baron  quite  recovered  from  his 
last  wound.  He  gave  them  in  bureaucratic  style  his 
thanks  for  the  indications  they  had  afforded  him,  and 
told  them  that  Bourignard  was  a  convict,  condemned 
to  twenty  3'ears'  hard  labor,  who  had  miraculously 
escaped  from  a  gang  which  was  being  transported 
from  Bicetre  to  Toulon.  For  thirteen  j'ears  the  po- 
lice had  been  endeavoring  to  recapture  him,  knowing 
that  he  had  boldh'  returned  to  Paris ;  but  so  far  this 
convict  had  escaped  the  most  active  search,  although 
he  was  known  to  be  mixed  up  in  man}'  nefarious 
deeds.  However,  the  man,  whose  life  was  full  of 
very  curious  incidents,  would  certainlj^  be  captured 
now   in  one   or   other   of    his   several   domiciles   and 


64  Ferragus. 

delivered  up  to  justice.  The  bureaucrat  ended  his 
report  b}'  saying  to  Monsieur  de  Maulincour  that  if 
he  attached  enough  importance  to  the  matter  to  wish 
to  witness  the  capture  of  Bourignard,  he  might  come 
the  next  da}^  at  eiglit  in  the  morning  to  a  house  in 
the  rue  Sainte-Foi,  of  which  he  gave  him  the  aumber. 
Monsieur  de  Maulincour  excused  himself  from  going 
personalh'  in  search  of  certaint}', — trusting,  with  the 
sacred  respect  inspired  by  the  police  of  Paris,  in  the 
capability  of  tlie  authorities. 

Three  days  later,  hearing  nothing,  and  seeing  noth- 
ing ill  the  newspapers  about  the  projected  arrest, 
which  was  certainl}'  of  enough  importance  to  have 
furnished  an  article,  Monsieur  de  Maulincour  was 
beginning  to  feel  anxieties  which  were  presentl}^ 
allayed  b}'  the  following  letter :  — 

Monsieur  le  Baron,  —  I  have  the  honor  to  announce 
to  you  that  you  need  have  no  further  uneasiness  touching 
the  affair  in  question.  The  man  named  Gratien  Bouri- 
gnard, otherwise  called  Ferragus,  died  yesterday,  at  his 
lodgings,  rue  Joquelet  No.  7.  The  suspicions  we  naturally 
conceived  as  to  the  identity  of  the  dead  body  have  been 
completely  set  at  rest  by  the  facts.  The  physician  of  the 
Prefecture  of  police  was  despatched  by  us  to  assist  the  phy- 
sician of  the  arrondissement,  and  the  chief  of  the  detective 
police  made  all  the  necessary  verifications  to  obtain  absolute 
certainty.  Moreover,  the  character  of  the  persons  who  signed 
the  certificate  of  death,  and  the  affidavits  of  those  who  took 
care  of  the  said  Bourignard  in  his  last  illness,  among  others 


Ferragus.  65 

that  of  the  worthy  vicar  of  the  church  of  the  Bonne-Xouvelle 
(to  whom  he  made  his  last  confession,  for  he  died  a  Chris- 
tian), do  not  permit  us  to  entertain  any  sort  of  doubt- 
Accept,  Monsieur  le  baron,  etc.,  etc. 

Monsieur  cle  Maulincour,  the  dowager,  and  the 
vidame  breathed  again  with  joy  unspeakable.  The 
good  old  woman  kissed  her  grandson  leaving  a  tear 
upon  his  cheek,  and  went  awa}^  to  thank  God  in 
prayer.  The  dear  soul,  who  was  making  a  novena 
for  Auguste's  safety,  beUeved  her  prayers  were  an- 
swered. 

"Well,"  said  the  vidame,  "now  you  had  better 
show  yourself  at  the  ball  you  were  speaking  of.  I 
oppose  no  further  objections." 


66  Ferragus. 


III. 


THE    WIFE    ACCUSED. 


Monsieur  de  Maulincourt  was  all  the  more  anxious 
to  go  to  this  ball  because  he  knew  that  Madame  Jules 
would  be  present.  The  fete  was  given  by  the  Prefect 
of  the  Seine,  in  whose  salons  the  two  social  worlds 
of  Paris  met  as  on  neutral  ground.  Auguste  passed 
through  the  rooms  without  finding  the  woman  who 
now  exercised  so  mighty  an  influence  on  his  fate. 
He  entered  an  empt}'  boudoir  where  card-tables  were 
placed  awaiting  players  ;  and  sitting  down  on  a  divan 
he  gave  himself  up  to  the  most  contradictor}^  thoughts 
about  her.  A  man  presently  took  the  young  officer  b}' 
the  arm,  and  looking  up  the  baron  was  stupefied  to 
behold  the  pauper  of  the  rue  Coquilliere,  the  Ferragus 
of  Ida,  the  lodger  in  the  rue  Sol}',  the  Bourignard  of 
Justin,  the  convict  of  the  police,  and  the  dead  man  of 
the  da}'  before. 

"Monsieur,  not  a  sound,  not  a  word,"  said  Bouri- 
gnard, whose  voice  he  recognized.  The  man  was 
elegantly  dressed  ;  he  wore  the  order  of  the  Golden- 
Fleece,  and  a  medal  on  his  coat.  "  Monsieur,"  he  con- 
tinued, and  his  voice  was  sibilant  like  that  of  a  hyena. 


Ferragns.  67 

*'3'ou  increase  ray  efforts  against  3'ou  bj-  having  re- 
course to  the  police.  You  will  perish,  monsieur ;  it 
has  now  become  necessary.  Do  you  love  Madame 
Jules?  Are  30U  beloved  by  her?  By  what  right  do 
you  trouble  her  peaceful  life,  and  blacken  her  virtue?" 

Some  one  entered  the  card-room.  Ferragus  rose 
to  go. 

"  Do  you  know  this  man?"  asked  Monsieur  de  Mau- 
lincour  of  the  new-comer,  seizing  Ferragus  b}'  the  col- 
lar. But  Ferragus  quickly  disengaged  himself,  took 
Monsieur  de  Maulincour  by  the  hair,  and  shook  his 
head  rapidly. 

"  Must  3'ou  have  lead  in  it  to  make  it  steady?''  he 
said. 

"  I  do  not  know  him  .personally,"  replied  Henri  de 
Marsa}',  the  spectator  of  this  scene,  "but  I  know  that 
he  is  Monsieur  de  Funcal,  a  rich  Portuguese." 

Monsieur  de  Funcal  had  disappeared.  The  baron 
followed  but  without  being  able  to  overtake  him  until 
he  reached  the  peristyle,  where  he  saw  Ferragus,  who 
looked  at  him  with  a  jeering  laugh  from  a  brilliant 
equipage  which  was  driven  away  at  high  speed. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Auguste,  re-entering  the  salon  and 
addressing  de  Marsay,  whom  he  knew,  "  I  entreat  you 
to  tell  me  where  Monsieur  de  Funcal  lives." 

"I  do  not  know;  but  some  one  here  can  no  doubt 
tell  you." 


68  Ferragus. 

The  baron,  having  questioned  the  prefect,  ascer- 
tained that  tlie  Comte  de  Funcal  Uved  at  the  Portu- 
guese embassy.  At  this  moment,  while  he  still  felt  the 
ic}"  fingers  of  that  strange  man  in  his  hair,  he  saw 
Madame  Jules  in  all  her  dazzling  beauty,  fresh,  gra- 
cious, artless,  resplendent  with  the  sanctity  of  woman- 
hood which  had  won  his  love.  This  creature,  now 
infernal  to  him,  excited  no  emotion  in  his  soul  but  that 
of  hatred ;  and  this  hatred  shone  in  a  savage,  terrible 
look  from  his  eyes.  He  watched  for  the  moment  when 
he  could  speak  to  her  unheard,  and  then  he  said :  — 

"Madame,  your  hravi  have  missed  me  three  times." 

"What  can  3'ou  mean,  monsieur?"  she  said,  flush- 
ing. "I  know  that  you  have  had  several  unfortunate 
accidents  latel}^,  which  I  have  greatly  regretted ;  but 
how  could  I  have  had  anything  to  do  with  them  ? " 

"You  knew  that  hrcwi  were  emploj'ed  against  rae 
by  that  man  of  the  rue  Soly  ? '' 

"  Monsieur!" 

"Madame,  I  now  call  you  to  account,  not  for  m^^ 
happiness  only,  but  for  my  blood  —  " 

At  this  instant  Jules  Desmarets  approached  them. 

"What  are  you  saying  to  my  wife,  monsieur?" 

"Make  that  inquir}'  at  ni}'  own  house,  monsieur,  if 
3'Ou  are  curious,"  said  Maulincour,  moving  away,  and 
leaving  Madame  Jules  in  an  almost  fainting  condition. 

There  are  few  women   who  have   not   found   them- 


Ferragus.  69 

selves,  once  at  least  in  their  lives,  d,  propos  of  some 
undeniable  fact,  confronted  with  a  direct,  sharp,  un- 
compromising question,  —  one  of  those  questions  piti- 
lessly asked  b}'^  husbands,  the  mere  apprehension  of 
which  gives  a  chill,  while  the  actual  words  enter  the 
heart  like  the  blade  of  a  dagger.  It  is  from  such 
crises  that  the  maxim  has  come,  "  All  women  lie."  ^ 
Falsehood,  kindly  falsehood,  venial  falsehood,  sublime 
falsehood,  horrible  falsehood,  —  but  always  the  neces- 
sit}'  to  lie.  This  necessity  admitted,  ought  they  not  to 
know  how  to  lie  well?  French  women  do  it  admirably. 
Our  manners  and  customs  teach  them  deception  !  Be- 
sides, women  are  so  naively  sauc}'-,  so  prett\',  graceful, 
and  withal  so  true  in  lying,  —  they  recognize  so  fully 
the  utiUt}'  of  doing  so  in  order  to  avoid  in  social  life 
the  violent  shocks  which  happiness  might  not  resist,  — 
that  lying  is  seen  to  be  as  necessary  to  their  lives  as 
the  cottonwool  in  which  they  put  awa}"  their  jewels. 
Falsehood  becomes  to  them  the  foundation  of  speech ; 
truth  is  exceptional ;  they  tell  it,  if  they  are  virtuous, 
by  caprice  or  by  calculation.  According  to  individual 
character,  some  women  laugh  when  they  lie ;  others 
weep ;  others  are  grave ;  some  grow  angry.  After 
beginning  life  b}^  feigning  indifference  to  the  homage 
that  deepl}'  flatters  them,  the}'  often  end  by  lying  to 
themselves.  Who  has  not  admired  their  apparent 
snperiorit}'  to  everything   at  the   very   moment  when 


70  Ferragus. 

they  are  trembling  for  the  secret  treasures  of  their 
love?  Who  has  never  studied  their  ease,  their  readi- 
ness, their  freedom  of  mind  in  the  greatest  embarass- 
ments  of  life?  In  them,  nothing  is  put  on.  Deception 
comes  as  the  snow  from  heaven.  And  then,  with  what 
art  they  discover  the  truth  in  others !  With  what 
shrewdness  the}"  employ  a  direct  logic  in  answer  to 
some  passionate  question  which  has  revealed  to  them 
the  secret  of  the  heart  of  a  man  who  was  guileless 
enough  to  proceed  b\'  questioning !  To  question  a 
■woman !  wh}',  that  is  delivering  one's  self  up  to  her ; 
does  she  not  learn  in  that  waj'  all  that  we  seek  to 
hide  from  her?  Does  she  not  know  also  how  to  be 
dumb,  though  speaking?  What  men  are  daring  enough 
to  struggle  with  the  Parisian  woman  ?  —  a  woman  who 
knows  how  to  hold  herself  above  all  dagger  thrusts, 
saving  :  "  You  are  ver}'  inquisitive  ;  what  is  it  to  3'ou? 
Why  do  wish  to  know  ?  Ah  !  you  are  jealous  !  And 
suppose  I  do  not  choose  to  answer  you  ?  "  —  in  short,  a 
woman  who  possesses  the  hundred  and  thirty-seven 
methods  of  saying  No,  and  incommensurable  variations 
of  the  word  Yes.  Is  not  a  treatise  on  the  words  yes  and 
no,  a  fine  diplomatic,  philosophic,  logographic,  and  moral 
work,  still  waiting  to  be  written  ?  But  to  accomplish 
this  work,  which  we  may  also  call  diabolic,  is  n't  an 
androg3'nous  genius  necessary?  For  that  reason,  prob- 
abl}',    it   will   never   be   attempted.     And    besides,  of 


Ferragus.  71 

all  unpublished  works  is  n't  it  the  best  known  and  the 
best  practised  among  women?  Have  you  studied  tlie 
behavior,  the  pose,  the  cUsinvoUura  of  a  falsehood? 
Examine  it. 

Madame  Desmarets  was  seated  in  the  right-hand 
corner  of  her  carriage,  her  husband  in  the  left.  Having 
forced  herself  to  recover  from  her  emotion  in  the  ball- 
room, she  now  affected  a  calm  demeanor.  Her  husband 
had  then  said  nothing  to  her,  and  he  still  said  nothing. 
Jules  looked  out  of  the  carriage  window  at  the  black 
walls  of  the  silent  houses  before  which  they  passed ; 
but  suddenly,  as  if  driven  by  a  determining  thought, 
when  turning  the  corner  of  a  street  he  examined  his 
wife,  who  appeared  to  be  cold  in  spite  of  the  fur-lined 
pelisse  in  which  she  was  wrapped.  He  thought  she 
seemed  pensive,  and  perhaps  she  was  really  so.  Of  all 
communicable  things,  reflection  and  gravity  are  the 
most  contagious. 

''  AVhat  could  Monsieur  de  Maulincour  have  said  to 
affect  you  so  keenly  ?  "  said  Jules  ;  ' '  and  whj'  does  he 
wish  me  to  go  to  his  house  and  find  out?  " 

"  He  can  tell  you  nothing  in  his  house  that  I  cannot 
tell  3'ou  here,"  she  replied. 

Then,  with  that  feminine  craft  which  alwa3'S  slightly 
degrades  virtue,  Madame  Jules  waited  for  another 
question.  Her  husband  turned  his  face  back  to 
the  houses,  and   continued   his   stud}'  of  their   walls. 


72  Ferragiis. 

Another  question  would  impl}^  suspicion,  distrust.  To 
suspect  a  woman  is  a  crime  in  love.  Jules  bad  already 
killed  a  man  for  doubting  his  wife.  Clemence  did  not 
know  all  there  was  of  true  passion,  of  loyal  reflection, 
in  her  husband's  silence ;  just  as  Jules  was  ignorant  of 
the  generous  drama  that  was  wringing  the  heart  of  his 
Clemence. 

The  carriage  rolled  on  through  a  silent  Paris,  bear- 
ing the  couple,  —  two  lovers  who  adored  each  other, 
and  who,  gently  leaning  on  the  same  silken  cushion, 
were  being  parted  by  an  abyss.  In  these  elegant 
coupes  returning  from  a  ball  between  midnight  and 
two  in  the  morning,  how  many  curious  and  singular 
scenes  must  pass,  —  meaning  those  coupes  with  lan- 
terns, which  light  both  the  street  and  the  carriage, 
those  with  their  windows  unshaded ;  in  short,  legiti- 
mate coupes,  in  which  couples  can  quarrel  without 
caring  for  the  eyes  of  pedestrians,  because  the  civil 
code  gives  a  right  to  provoke,  or  beat,  or  kiss,  a 
wife  in  a  carriage  or  elsewhere,  an3'where,  every- 
where !  How  many  secrets  must  be  revealed  in  this 
way  to  nocturnal  pedestrians,  —  to  those  young  fellows 
who  have  gone  to  a  ball  in  a  carriage,  but  are  obliged, 
for  whatever  cause  it  ma}'  be,  to  return  on  foot.  It 
was  the  first  time  that  Jules  and  Clemence  had  been 
together  thus,  —  each  in  a  corner;  usuall}'  the  husband 
pressed  close  to  his  wife. 


Ferragus.  73 

"  It  is  very  cold,"  remarked  Madame  Jules. 

But  her  husband  did  not  hear  her ;  he  was  studying 
the  signs  above  the  shop  windows. 

"  Clemence,"  he  said  at  last,  "  forgive  me  the  ques- 
tion I  am  about  to  ask  you." 

He  came  closer,  took  her  by  the  waist,  and  drew  her 
to  him. 

''  My  God,  it  is  coming  ! "  thought  the  poor  woman. 
"  Well,"  she  said  aloud,  anticipating  the  question, 
"you  want  to  know  what  Monsieur  de  MauUncour  said 
to  me.  I  will  tell  you,  Jules;  but  not  without  fear. 
Good  God !  how  is  it  possible  that  you  and  I  should 
have  secrets  from  one  another?  For  the  last  few  mo- 
ments I  have  seen  you  struggling  between  a  conviction 
of  our  love  and  vague  fears.  But  that  conviction  is 
clear  within  us,  is  it  not?  And  these  doubts  and  fears, 
do  they  not  seem  to  you  dark  and  unnatural?  AYhy 
not  sta}^  in  that  clear  light  of  love  you  cannot  doubt? 
When  I  have  told  you  all,  you  will  still  desire  to  know 
more ;  and  yet  I  myself  do  not  know  what  the  ex- 
traordinary words  of  that  man  meant.  What  I  fear  is 
that  this  may  lead  to  some  fatal  affair  between  you.  I 
would  rather  that  we  both  forget  this  unpleasant  mo- 
ment. But,  in  an}^  case,  swear  to  me  that  5'ou  will  let 
this  singular  adventure  explain  itself  naturall}'.  Here 
are  the  facts.  Monsieur  de  MauUncour  declared  to  me 
that  the  three  accidents  3'ou  have  heard  mentioned  — • 


74  Ferragus. 

the  falling  of  a  stone  on  bis  servant,  the  breaking  down 
of  his  cabriolet,  and  his  duel  about  Madame  de  Serizy 
—  were  the  result  of  some  plot  I  had  laid  against  him. 
He  also  threatened  to  reveal  to  you  the  cause  of  my 
desire  to  destroy  him.  Can  you  imagine  what  all  this 
means?  My  emotion  came  from  the  sight  of  his  face 
convulsed  with  madness,  his  haggard  e3'es,  and  also 
his  words,  broken  b}'  some  violent  inward  emotion.  I 
thought  him  mad.  That  is  all  that  took  place.  Now, 
I  should  be  less  than  a  woman  if  I  had  not  perceived 
that  for  over  a  year  1  have  become,  as  they  call  it,  the 
passion  of  Monsieur  de  Maulincour.  He  has  never 
seen  me  except  at  a  ball ;  and  our  intercourse  has  been 
most  insignificant,  —  merelj'  that  which  ever}'  one 
shares  at  a  ball.  Perhaps  he  wants  to  disunite  us,  so 
that  he  may  find  me  at  some  future  time  alone  and 
nnprotected.  There,  see !  already  3'ou  are  frowning ! 
Oh,  how  cordialh'  I  hate  societ}' !  We  were  so  happj' 
without  him;  why  take  any  notice  of  him?  Jules,  I 
entreat  you,  forget  all  this !  To-morrow  we  shall,  no 
doubt,  hear  that  Monsieur  de  Maulincour  has  gone 
mad." 

"What  a  singular  aflfair !  "  thought  Jules,  as  the 
carriage  stopped  under  the  perist3'le  of  their  house. 
He  gave  his  arm  to  his  wife  and  together  the}'  went  up 
to  their  apartments. 

To  develop  this  histor\'  in  all  its  truth  of  detail,  and 


Ferragus.  75 

to  follow  its  course  through  man}'  windings,  it  is  neces- 
sary here  to  divulge  some  of  love's  secrets,  to  glide 
beneath  the  ceilings  of  a  marriage  chamber,  not  shame- 
lessly, but  like  Trilby,  frightening  neither  Dougal  nor 
Jeannie,  alarming  no  one,  —  being  as  chaste  as  our 
noble  French  language  requires,  and  as  bold  as  the 
pencil  of  Gerard  in  his  picture  of  Daphnis  and  Chloe. 

The  bedroom  of  Madame  Jules  was  a  sacred  spot. 
Herself,  her  husband,  and  her  maid  alone  entered  it. 
Opulence  has  glorious  privileges,  and  the  most  envi- 
able are  those  which  enable  the  development  of  senti- 
ments to  their  fullest  extent,  —  fertilizing  them  b}'  the 
accomplishment  of  even  their  caprices,  and  surrounding 
them  with  a  brilliancy  that  enlarges  them,  with  refine- 
ments that  purify  them,  with  a  thousand  delicacies  that 
make  them  still  more  alluring.  If  you  hate  dinners  on 
the  grass,  and  meals  ill-served,  if  3'ou  feel  a  pleasure 
in  seeing  a  damask  cloth  that  is  dazzlingly  white,  a 
silver-gilt  dinner  service,  and  porcelain  of  exquisite 
purity,  lighted  by  transparent  candles,  where  miracles 
of  cookery  are  served  under  silver  covers  bearing  coats 
of  arms,  you  must,  to  be  consistent,  leave  the  garrets 
at  the  tops  of  the  houses,  and  the  grisettes  in  the  streets, 
abandon  garrets,  grisettes,  umbrellas,  and  overshoes  to 
men  who  pa}'  for  their  dinners  with  tickets  ;  and  you 
nmst  also  comprehend  Love  to  be  a  principle  which 
develops  in  all  its  grace  only  on  Savonnerie  carpets,  be- 


76  Ferragus. 

neath  the  opal  gleams  of  an  alabaster  lamp,  between 
guarded  walls  silk-hung,  before  gilded  hearths  in  cham- 
bers deadened  to  all  outward  sounds  by  shutters  and 
billow}^  curtains.  Mirrors  must  be  there  to  show  the 
play  of  form  and  repeat  the  woman  we  would  multiply 
as  love  itself  multiplies  and  magnifies  her ;  next  low 
divans,  and  a  bed  which,  like  a  secret,  is  divined,  not 
shown.  In  this  coquettish  chamber  are  fur-lined  slip- 
pers for  pretty  feet,  wax-candles  under  glass  with 
muslin  draperies,  b}-  which  to  read  at  all  hours  of  the 
night,  and  flowers,  not  those  oppressive  to  the  head, 
and  linen,  the  fineness  of  which  might  have  satisfied 
Anne  of  Austria. 

Madame  Jules  had  realized  this  charming  programme, 
but  that  was  nothing.  All  women  of  taste  can  do  as 
much,  though  there  is  alwa3's  in  the  arrangement  of 
these  details  a  stamp  of  personalit}'  which  gives  to  this 
decoration  or  that  detail  a  character  that  cannot  be 
imitated.  To-da}',  more  than  ever,  reigns  the  fanati- 
cism of  individualit}'.  The  more  our  laws  tend  to  an 
impossible  equalitj^,  the  more  we  shall  get  awa}'  from  it 
in  our  manners  and  customs.  Thus,  rich  people  are 
beginning,  in  France,  to  become  more  exclusive  in 
their  tastes  and  their  belongings,  than  they  have  been 
for  the  last  thirty  years.  Madame  Jules  knew  very 
well  how  to  carr}^  out  this  programme  ;  and  everything 
about  her  was  arranged  in  harmony  with  a  luxury  that 


Ferragus.  77 

suits  so  well  with  love.  Love  in  a  cottage,  or  ''  Fifteen 
hundred  francs  and  my  Sophy,"  is  the  dream  of  starve- 
lings to  whom  black  bread  suffices  in  their  present 
state  ;  but  when  love  really  comes,  they  grow  fastidious 
and  end  by  craving  the  luxuries  of  gastronom}'.  Love 
holds  toil  and  povert}'  in  horror.  It  would  rather  die 
than  merel}'  live  on  from  hand  to  moutli. 

Man}'  women,  returning  from  a  ball,  impatient  for 
their  beds,  throw  off  their  gowns,  their  faded  flowers, 
their  bouquets,  the  fragrance  of  which  has  now  de- 
parted. The}'  leave  their  little  shoes  beneath  a  chair, 
the  white  strings  trailing ;  the}-  take  out  their  combs 
and  let  their  hair  roll  down  as  it  will.  Little  they  care 
if  their  husbands  see  the  puifs,  the  hairpins,  the  artful 
props  which  supported  the  elegant  edifice  of  the  hair, 
and  the  garlands  or  the  jewels  that  adorned  it.  No 
more  mysteries !  all  is  over  for  the  husband ;  no  more 
painting  or  decoration  for  him.  The  corset  —  half  the 
time  it  is  a  corset  of  a  reparatiA'^e  kind  —  lies  where  it 
is  thrown,  if  the  maid  is  too  sleepy-  to  take  it  awa\'  with 
her.  The  whalebone  bustle,  the  oiled-silk  protections 
round  the  sleeves,  the  pads,  the  hair  bought  from  a 
coiffeur,  all  the  false  woman  is  there,  scattered  about 
in  open  sight.  Disjecta  membra  poetce^  the  artificial 
poesy,  so  much  admired  by  those  for  whom  it  is  con- 
ceived and  elaborated,  the  fragments  of  a  pretty  woman, 
litter  ever}'  corner  of  the  room.     To  the  love  of  a  yawn- 


78  Ferragus. 

ing  husband,  the  actual  woman  presents  herself,  also 
3'awning,  in  a  dishabille  without  elegance,  and  a 
tumbled  night-cap,  that  of  last  night  and  that  of  to- 
morrow night  also,  —  "For  reall}',  monsieur,  if  you 
want  a  prett}'  cap  to  rumple  every  night,  increase  my 
pin-money." 

There's  life  as  it  is !  A  woman  makes  herself  old 
and  unpleasing  to  her  husband  ;  but  dainty  and  elegant 
and  adorned  for  others,  for  the  rival  of  all  husbands,  — 
for  that  world  which  calumniates  and  tears  to  shreds 
her  sex. 

Inspired  by  true  love,  for  Love  has,  like  other  crea- 
tions, its  instinct  of  preservation,  Madame  Jules  did 
very  differently ;  she  found  in  the  constant  blessing  of 
her  love  the  necessary  impulse  to  fulfil  all  those  mi- 
nute personal  cares  which  ought  never  to  be  relaxed, 
because  they  perpetuate  love.  Besides,  such  personal 
cares  and  duties  proceed  from  a  personal  dignity  which 
becomes  all  women,  and  are  among  the  sweetest  of 
flatteries,  for  is  it  not  respecting  in  themselves  the  man 
they  love  ? 

So  Madame  Jules  denied  to  her  husband  all  access  to 
her  dressing-room,  where  she  left  the  accessories  of  her 
toilet,  and  whence  she  issued  m3'steriously  adorned  for 
the  m3'sterious  fetes  of  her  heart.  Entering  their  cham- 
ber, which  was  always  graceful  and  elegant,  Jules  found 
a  woman  coquettishly  wrapped  in  a  charming  peignoir, 


Ferragus.  79 

her  hair  simply  wound  in  heavy  coils  around  her  head ; 
a  woman  always  more  simple,  more  beautiful  there 
than  she  was  before  the  world  ;  a  woman  just  refreshed 
in  water,  whose  only  artifice  consisted  in  being  whiter 
than  her  muslins,  sweeter  than  all  perfumes,  more 
seductive  than  any  siren,  alwa^^s  loving  and  there- 
fore alwa3's  loved.  This  admirable  understanding  of 
a  wife's  business  was  the  secret  of  Josephine's  charm 
for  Napoleon,  as  in  former  times  it  was  that  of 
Csesonia  for  Caius  Caligula,  of  Diane  de  Poitiers  for 
Henri  II.  If  it  was  largely  productive  to  women  of 
seven  or  eight  lustres  what  a  weapon  is  it  in  the  hands 
of  3'oung  women  !  A  husband  gathers  with  delight  the 
rewards  of  his  fidelit3\ 

Returning  home  after  the  conversation  which  had 
chilled  her  with  fear,  and  still  gave  her  the  keenest 
anxiet}',  Madame  Jules  took  particular  pains  with  her 
toilet  for  the  night.  She  wanted  to  make  herself,  and 
she  did  make  herself  enchanting.  She  belted  the 
cambric  of  her  dressing-gown  round  her  waist,  defining 
the  lines  of  her  bust ;  she  allowed  her  hair  to  fall  upon 
her  beautifully  modelled  shoulders.  A  perfumed  bath 
had  given  her  a  delightful  fragrance,  and  her  little  bare 
feet  were  in  velvet  slippers.  Strong  in  a  sense  of  her 
advantages  she  came  in  stepping  softly,  and  put  her 
hands  over  her  husband's  eyes.  She  thought  him 
peftsive ;  he  was  standing  in  his  dressing-gown  before 


80  Ferragus. 

the  fire,  his  elbow  on  the  mantel  and  one  foot  on  the 
fender.  She  said  in  his  ear,  warming  it  with  her 
breath,  and  nibbling  the  tip  of  it  with  her  teeth :  — 

"What  are  you  thinking  about,  monsieur?" 

Then  she  pressed  him  in  her  arms  as  if  to  tear  him 
away  from  all  evil  thoughts.  The  woman  who  loves 
has  a  full  knowledge  of  her  power ;  the  more  virtuous 
she  is,  the  more  effectual  is  her  coquetry. 

"  About  you,"  he  answered. 

"  Only  about  me?" 

''Yes." 

"Ah  I  that's  a  very  doubtful  '  yes.'  " 

They  went  to  bed.  As  she  fell  asleep,  Madame  Jules 
said  to  herself :  — 

"  Monsieur  de  Maulincour  will  certainl}'  cause  some 
evil.  Jules'  mind  is  preoccupied,  disturbed;  he  is 
nursing  thoughts  he  does  not  tell  me." 

It  was  three  in  the  morning  when  Madame  Jules 
was  awakened  b}-  a  presentiment  which  struck  her 
heart  as  she  slept.  She  had  a  sense  both  ph3'sical 
and  moral  of  her  husband's  absence.  She  did  not 
feel  the  arm  Jules  passed  beneath  her  head,  —  that 
arm  in  which  she  had  slept,  peaceful  and  happ}',  for 
five  years ;  an  arm  she  had  never  wearied.  A 
voice  said  to  her,  "Jules  suffers,  Jules  is  weeping." 
She  raised  her  head,  and  then  sat  up ;  felt  that  her 
husband's  place  was  cold,  and  saw  him  sitting  before 


Ferragus.  81 

the  fire,  his  feet  on  the  fender,  his  head  resting 
against  the  back  of  an  arm-chair.  Tears  were  on  his 
cheeks.  The  poor  woman  threw  herself  hastily  from 
her  bed  and  sprang  at  a  bound  to  her  husband's 
knees. 

"  Jules  !  what  is  it?  Are  3'ou  ill?  Speak,  tell  me  ! 
Speak  to  me,  if  you  love  me ! "  and  she  poured  out  a 
hundred  words  expressing  the  deepest  tenderness. 

Jules  knelt  at  her  feet,  kissed  her  hands  and  knees, 
and  answered  with  fresh  tears  :  — 

"Dear  Clemence,  I  am  most  unhapp}- !  It  is  not 
loving  to  distrust  the  one  we  love.  I  adore  3'ou  and 
suspect  you.  The  words  that  man  said  to  me  to-night 
have  struck  to  m}^  heart ;  thej'  sta}'  there  in  spite  of 
myself,  and  confound  me.  There  is  some  mystery 
here.  In  short,  and  I  blush  to  say  it,  your  explana- 
tions do  not  satisfv"  me.  M3'  reason  casts  gleams  into 
my  soul  which  m}^  love  rejects.  It  is  an  awful  combat. 
Could  I  stay  there,  holding  3'our  head,  and  suspecting 
thoughts  within  it  to  me  unknown?  Oh!  I  believe  in 
3'OU,  I  believe  in  you  ! "  he  cried,  seeing  her  smile 
sadl3^  and  open  her  mouth  as  if  to  speak.  "  Sav 
nothing ;  do  not  reproach  me.  A  word  of  blame  from 
3'ou  would  kill  me.  Besides,  could  3'OU  sa3"  anything 
I  have  not  said  to  m3'self  for  tlie  last  three  hours? 
Yes,  for  three  hours,  I  have  been  here,  watching  3'ou 
as  you  slept,  so  beautiful !  adniiring  that  pure,  peace- 

6 


82  Fer  vagus. 

ful  brow.  Yes,  yes !  you  have  alwa3's  told  me  your 
thoughts,  have  3'ou  not?  I  alone  am  in  that  soul. 
While  I  look  at  you,  while  my  eyes  can  plunge  into 
yours  I  see  all  plainly-.  Your  life  is  as  pure  as  3'our 
glance  is  clear.  No,  there  is  no  secret  behind  those 
transparent  e3'es."  He  rose  and  kissed  their  lids.  "Let 
me  avow  to  3'on,  dearest  soul,"  he  said,  "  that  for  the 
last  five  3'ears  each  day  has  increased  m3"  happiness, 
through  the  knowledge  that  3'ou  are  all  mine,  and  that 
no  natural  nfFection  even  can  take  any  of  3'our  love. 
Having  no  sister,  no  father,  no  mother,  no  companion, 
I  am  neither  above  nor  below  an3'  living  being  in  youi 
heart ;  I  am  alone  there.  Clemence,  repeat  to  me 
those  sweet  things  of  the  spirit  30U  have  so  often 
said  to  me ;  do  not  blame  me ;  comfort  me,  I  am 
so  unhapp3'.  I  have  an  odious  suspicion  on  m3'  con- 
science, and  you  have  nothing  in  your  heart  to  sear 
it.  My  beloved,  tell  me,  could  I  sta3-  there  beside 
3'Ou?  Could  two  heads  united  as  ours  have  been  lie 
on  the  same  pillow  when  one  was  suffering  and  the 
other  tranquil?  What  are  you  thinking  of?"  he  cried 
abruptl3',  observing  that  Clemence  was  anxious,  con- 
fused, and  seemed  unable  to  restrain   her  tears. 

"I  am  thinking  of  my  mother,"  she  answered,  in  a 
grave  voice.  "  You  will  never  know,  Jules,  what  I 
suffer  in  remembering  m3"  mother's  dying  farewell,  saifl 
in  a  voice  sweeter  than  all  music,    and  in  feeling  the 


Ferragus.  83 

solemn  touch  of  her  ic}^  hand  at  a  moment  when  you  over- 
whehu  me  with  those  assurances  of  your  precious  love." 

She  raised  her  husband,  strained  him  to  her  with  a 
nervous  force  greater  than  that  of  men,  and  kissed 
his  hair,  covering  it  with  tears. 

"  Ah  !  I  would  be  hacked  in  pieces  for  you  !  Tell  me 
that  I  make  3'ou  happv  ;  that  I  am  to  3'ou  the  most  beau- 
tiful of  women  —  a  thousand  women  to  3'OU.  Oh!  you 
are  loved  as  no  other  man  ever  was  or  will  be.  I  don't 
know  the  meaning  of  those  words  '  dutj'/  '  virtue.' 
Jules,  I  love  you  for  yourself;  I  am  happ\'  in  loving  3'ou  ; 
I  shall  love  3'OU  more  and  more  to  m3'  dying  da3'.  1 
have  pride  in  m3'  love  ;  I  feel  it  is  m3'  destin3"  to  have 
one  sole  emotion  in  m3'  life.  What  I  shall  tell  you  now 
is  dreadful,  I  know  —  but  I  am  glad  to  have  no  child  ;  I 
do  not  wish  for  an3'.  I  feel  I  am  more  wife  than  motlier. 
Well,  then,  can  you  fear?  Listen  to  me,  m3'  own  be- 
loved, promise  to  forget,  not  this  hour  of  mingled  tender- 
ness and  doubt,  but  the  words  of  that  madman.  Jules, 
you  must.  Promise  me  not  to  see  him,  not  to  go  to  liim. 
I  have  a  deep  conviction  that  if  3'ou  set  one  foot  into 
that  maze  we  shall  both  roll  down  a  precipice  where 
I  shall  perish  —  but  with  your  name  upon  m3'  lips,  your 
heart  in  m3^  heart.  Wh3'  hold  me  so  high  in  that  heart 
and  yet  so  low  in  realit3'?  What !  3'ou  who  give  credit 
to  so  man3'  as  to  mone3',  can  you  not  give  me  the 
charit3''  of  faith?     And  on  the  first  occasion  in  our  lives 


84  Fcrragus. 

when  3'ou  might  prove  to  me  your  boundless  trust,  do 
3'ou  cast  me  from  my  throne  in  your  heart?  Between 
a  madman  and  me,  it  is  the  madman  whom  3'ou  choose 
to  believe?  oh,  Jules  !  "  She  stopped,  threw  back  the 
hair  that  fell  about  her  brow  and  neck,  and  then,  in  a 
heart-rending  tone,  she  added  :  "  I  have  said  too  much  ; 
one  word  should  suffice.  If  3'our  soul  and  3'our  fore- 
head still  keep  this  cloud,  however  light  it  be,  I  tell 
you  now  that  I  shall  die  of  it." 

She  could  not  repress  a  shudder,  and  turned  pale. 

"Oh!  I  will  kill  that  man,"  thought  Jules,  as  he 
lifted  his  wife  in  his  arms  and  carried  lier  to  her  bed. 

"Let  us  sleep  in  peace,  m3'  angel,"  he  said.  ''I 
have  forgotten  all,  1  swear  it!" 

Clemence  fell  asleep  to  the  music  of  those  sweet 
words,  softh'  repeated.  Jules,  as  he  watched  her  sleep- 
ing, said  in  his  heart :  — 

"She  is  right;  when  love  is  so  pure,  suspicion 
blights  it.  To  that  young  soul,  that  tender  flower,  a 
blight  —  yes,  a  blight  means  death." 

When  a  cloud  comes  between  two  beings  filled  with 
affection  for  each  other  and  whose  lives  are  in  abso- 
lute unison,  that  cloud,  though  it  ma3"  disperse,  leaves 
in  these  souls  a  trace  of  its  passage.  Either  love  gains 
a  stronger  life,  as  the  earth  after  rain,  or  the  shock 
still  echoes  like  distant  thunder  through  a  cloudless 
sk3\  It  is  impossible  to  recover  absolutel3'  the  former 
life ;  love  will  either  increase  or  diminish. 


Ferragus.  85 

At  breakfast,  Monsieur  and  Madame  Jules  showed 
to  each  other  those  particular  attentions  in  which  there 
is  alwaj's  something  of  affectation.  There  were  glances 
of  forced  gayety,  which  seemed  the  effort  of  persons 
endeavoring  to  deceive  themselves.  Jules  had  invol- 
untary^ doubts,  his  wife  had  positive  fears.  Still,  sure 
of  each  other,  they  had  slept.  Was  this  strained  con- 
dition the  effect  of  a  want  of  faith,  or  was  it  only  a 
memor}^  of  their  nocturnal  scene?  They  did  not  know 
themselves.  But  they  loved  each  other  so  purely  that 
the  impression  of  that  scene,  both  cruel  and  beneficent, 
could  not  fail  to  leave  its  traces  in  their  souls ;  both 
were  eager  to  make  those  traces  disappear,  each  striv- 
ing to  be  the  first  to  return  to  the  other,  and  thus  they 
could  not  fail  to  think  of  the  cause  of  tlieir  first  vari- 
ance. To  loving  souls,  this  is  not  grief;  pain  is  still 
far-off ;  but  it  is  a  sort  of  mourning,  which  is  diffi- 
cult to  depict.  If  there  are,  indeed,  relations  between 
colors  and  the  emotions  of  the  soul,  if,  as  Locke's 
blind  man  said,  scarlet  produces  on  the  sight  the  effect 
produced  on  the  hearing  by  a  blast  of  trumpets,  it  is 
permissible  to  compare  this  reac':ion  of  melancholy  to 
mourning  tones  of  gra}'. 

But  even  so,  love  saddened,  love  in  which  remains  a 
true  sentiment  of  its  happiness,  momentarily  troubled 
though  it  be,  gives  enjo3'ments  derived  from  pain  and 
pleasure  both,  which  are  all  novel.     Jules  studied  his 


86  Ferragus. 

wife's  voice ;  he  watched  her  glances  with  the  fresh- 
ness of  feehng  that  inspired  him  in  the  earliest  da3'S 
of  liis  passion  for  her.  The  memory  of  five  absolutely 
happy  3^ears,  her  beauty,  the  candor  of  her  love,  quickly 
effaced  in  her  husband's  mind  the  last  vestiges  of  an 
intolerable  pain. 

The  day  was  Sunday,  —  a  da}"  on  which  there  was 
no  Bourse  and  no  business  to  be  done.  Tlie  reunited 
pair  passed  the  whole  da}'  together,  getting  farther  in- 
to each  other's  hearts  than  they  ever  yet  had  done, 
like  two  children  who  in  a  moment  of  fear,  hold  each 
other  closely  and  cling  together,  united  by  an  instinct. 
There  are  in  this  life  of  two-in-one  completely  happy 
days,  the  gift  of  chance,  ephemeral  flowers,  born 
neither  of  yesterday  nor  belonging  to  the  morrow. 
Jules  and  Clemence  now  enjoyed  this  day  as  though 
they  foreboded  it  to  be  the  last  of  their  loving  life. 
What  name  shall  we  give  to  that  mysterious  power 
which  hastens  the  steps  of  travellers  before  the  storm 
is  visible ;  which  makes  the  life  and  beauty  of  the  dy- 
ing so  resplendent,  and  fills  the  parting  soul  with  joy- 
ous projects  for  days  before  death  comes  ;  which  tells 
the  midnight  student  to  fill  his  lamp  when  it  shines 
brightest ;  and  makes  the  mother  fear  the  thoughtful 
look  cast  upon  her  infant  by  an  observing  man  ?  We 
all  are  affected  by  this  influence  in  the  great  catastro- 
phes of  life  ;  but  it  has  never  yet  been  named  or  stud- 


Ferragus.  87 

ied  ;   it  is  something  more  than  presentiment,  but  not 
as  yet  clear  vision. 

All  went  well  till  the  following  da}'.  On  Monda}', 
Jules  Desmarets,  obliged  to  go  to  the  Bourse  on  his 
usual  business,  asked  his  wife,  as  usual,  if  she  would 
take  advantage  of  his  carriage  and  let  him  drive  her 
an}' where. 

"  No,"  she  said,  ••'  the  da}'  is  too  unpleasant  to  go 
out." 

It  was  raining  in  torrents.  At  half-past  two  o'clock 
Monsieur  Desmarets  reached  the  Treasury.  At  four 
o'clock,  as  he  left  the  Bourse,  he  came  face  to  face  with 
Monsieur  de  Maulincour,  who  was  waiting  for  him  with 
the  nervous  pertinacity  of  hatred  and  vengeance. 

^'  Monsieur,"  he  said,  taking  Monsieur  Desmarets  by 
the  arm,  "  I  have  important  information  to  give  you. 
Listen  to  me.  I  am  too  loyal  a  man  to  have  recourse 
to  anonymous  letters  with  which  to  trouble  your  peace 
of  mind ;  I  prefer  to  speak  to  you  in  person.  Believe 
me,  if  my  very  life  were  not  concerned,  I  should  not 
meddle  with  the  private  affairs  of  any  household,  even 
if  I  thought  I  had  the  right  to  do  so." 

"  If  what  you  have  to  say  to  me  concerns  Madame 
Desmarets,"  replied  Jules,  "  I  request  you  to  be  silent, 
monsieur." 

"  If  I  am  silent,  monsieur,  you  may  before  long  see 
Madame  Jules  on  the  prisoner's  bench  at  the  court  of 


88  Ferragus. 

assizes  beside  a  convict.     Now,  do  you  wish  me  to  be 
silent?" 

Jules  turned  pale ;  but  his  noble  face  instantly  re- 
sumed its  calmness,  though  it  was  now  a  false  calm- 
ness. Drawing  the  baron  under  one  of  the  temporary 
sheds  of  the  Bourse,  near  which  the}'  were  standing, 
he  said  to  him  in  a  voice  which  concealed  his  intense 
inward  emotion :  — 

"  Monsieur,  I  will  listen  to  you  ;  but  there  will  be  a 
duel  to  the  death  between  us  if —  " 

"Oh,  to  that  I  consent!"  cried  Monsieur  de  Mau- 
lincour.  "  I  have  the  greatest  esteem  for  your  charac- 
ter. You  speak  of  death.  You  are  unaware  that  your 
wife  may  have  assisted  in  poisoning  me  last  Saturday 
night.  Yes,  monsieur,  since  then  some  extraordinary 
evil  has  developed  in  me.  My  hair  appears  to  distil 
an  inward  fever  and  a  deadly  languor  through  my 
skull  ;  I  know  who  clutched  my  hair  at  that  ball." 

Monsieur  de  Maulincour  then  related,  without  omit- 
ting a  single  fact,  his  platonic  love  for  Madame  Jules, 
and  the  details  of  the  affair  in  the  rue  Soly  which 
began  this  narrative.  An}'  one  would  have  listened  to 
him  with  attention ;  but  Madame  Jules'  husband  had 
good  reason  to  be  more  amazed  than  any  other  human 
being.  Here  his  character  displa3'ed  itself;  he  was 
more  amazed  than  overcome.  Made  a  judge,  and  the 
judge  of  an  adored  woman,  he  found  in  his  soul  the 


Ferragus.  89 

equity  of  a  judge  as  well  as  the  inflexibilit3\  A  lover 
still,  he  thought  less  of  his  own  shattered  life  than  of 
his  wife's  life ;  he  listened,  not  to  his  own  anguish,  but 
to  some  far-off  voice  that  cried  to  him,  "  Clemence 
cannot  lie  !     Why  should  she  betra}^  you  ?  " 

'' Monsieur,"  said  the  baron,  as  he  ended,  "being 
absolutely  certain  of  having  recognized  in  Monsieur  de 
Funcal  the  same  Ferragus  whom  the  police  declared 
dead,  I  have  put  upon  his  traces  an  intelligent  man. 
As  I  returned  that  night  I  remembered,  by  a  fortunate 
chance,  the  name  of  Madame  Me3'nardie,  mentioned  in 
that  letter  of  Ida,  the  presumed  mistress  of  m}'  perse- 
cutor. Supplied  with  this  clue,  my  emissary'  will  soon 
get  to  the  bottom  of  this  horrible  affair ;  for  he  is 
far  more  able  to  discover  the  truth  than  the  police 
themselves." 

"Monsieur,"  replied  Desmarets,  "I  know  not  how 
to  thank  3'ou  for  this  confidence.  You  sa}'  that  you 
can  obtain  proofs  and  witnesses  ;  I  shall  await  them.  I 
shall  seek  the  truth  of  this  strange  affair  courageousl}* ; 
but  3'ou  must  permit  me  to  doubt  everything  until  the 
evidence  of  the  facts  you  state  is  proved  to  me.  In  any 
case  3"ou  shall  have  satisfaction,  for,  as  you  will  cer- 
tainly^ understand,  we  both  require  it." 

Jules  returned  home. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Jules?"  asked  his  wife,  when 
she  saw  him.     "  You  look  so  pale  j'ou  frighten  me  ! " 


90  Ferragus. 

"  The  da^'  is  cold,"  be  answered,  walking  with  slow 
steps  across  the  room  where  all  things  spoke  to  him  of 
love  and  hnppiness,  —  that  room  so  calm  and  peaceful 
where  a  deadl\'  storm  was  gathering. 

"Did  j'ou  go  out  to-da}'?"  he  asked,  as  though 
raechanicalh'. 

He  was  impelled  to  ask  the  question  by  the  last  of  a 
ni3riad  of  thoughts  which  had  gathered  themselves 
together  into  a  lucid  meditation,  though  jealous}'  was 
activeh'  prompting  them. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  in  a  tone  that  was  falsel}' 
candid. 

At  that  instant  Jules  saw  through  the  open  door  of 
the  dressing-room  the  velvet  bonnet  which  his  wife 
wore  in  the  mornings  ;  on  it  were  drops  of  rain.  Jules 
was  a  passionate  man,  but  he  was  also  full  of  delicacy. 
It  was  repugnant  to  him  to  bring  his  wife  face  to  face 
with  a  lie.  When  such  a  situation  occurs,  all  has  come 
to  an  end  forever  between  certain  beings.  And  j'et 
those  drops  of  rain  were  like  a  flash  tearing  through  his 
brain. 

He  left  the  room,  went  down  to  the  porter's  lodge, 
and  said  to  the  porter,  after  making  sure  that  they 
were  alone :  — 

"  Fouguereau,  a  hundred  crowns  if  you  tell  me  the 
truth ;  dismissal  if  3'ou  deceive  me  ;  and  nothing  at  all 
if  3'ou  ever  speak  of  my  question  and  your  answer." 


Ferragus.  91 

He  stopped  to  examine  the  man's  face,  leading  him 
under  the  window.     Then  he  continued  :  — 

"•  Did  madame  go  out  this  morning?  '' 

"  Madame  went  out  at  a  quarter  to  three,  and  I 
think  I  saw  her  come  in  about  half  an  hour  ago." 

"  That  is  true,  upon  your  honor?  " 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

"  You  will  have  the  money  ;  but  if  you  speak  of  this, 
remember,  you  will  lose  all." 

Jules  returned  to  his  wife. 

''Clemence,"  )ie  said,  "I  find  I  must  put  my  ac- 
counts in  order.  Do  not  be  offended  at  the  inquir}-  I 
am  going  to  make.  Have  I  not  given  you  forty  thou- 
sand francs  since  the  beginning  of  the  year?" 

"  More,"  she  said,  —  "fort}'- seven." 

"  Have  you  spent  them?  " 

"  Nearly,"  she  replied.  "In  the  first  place,  I  had  to 
pay  several  of  our  last  year's  bills  —  " 

"  I  shall  never  find  out  anything  in  this  wa}'," 
thought  Jules.     "  I  am  not  taking  the  best  course." 

At  this  moment  Jules'  own  valet  entered  the  room 
wdth  a  letter  for  his  master,  who  opened  it  indifferentl}', 
but  as  soon  as  his  ej'es  had  lighted  on  the  signature  he 
read  it  eagerl}'.     The  letter  w^as  as  follows  :  — 

Monsieur, —  For  the  sake  of  your  peace  of  mind  as  well 
as  ours,  I  take  the  course  of  waiting  you  this  letter  without 
possessing  the  advantage  of  being  known  to  you ;  but  my 


92  Ferragus. 

position,  my  age,  and  the  fear  of  some  misfortune  compel 
me  to  entreat  you  to  show  indulgence  in  the  trying  circum- 
stances under  which  our  afflicted  family  is  placed.  Mon- 
sieur Auguste  de  Maulincour  has  for  the  last  few  days  shown 
signs  of  mental  derangement,  and  we  fear  that  he  may 
trouble  your  happiness  by  fancies  which  he  confided  to  Mon- 
sieur le  Vidame  de  Pamier's  and  myself  during  his  first 
attack  of  frenzy.  We  think  it  right,  therefore,  to  warn  you 
of  his  malady,  which  is,  we  hope,  curable ;  but  it  will  have 
such  serious  and  important  effects  on  the  honor  of  our  fam- 
ily and  the  career  of  my  gTandson  that  we  must  rely,  mon- 
sieur, on  your  entire  discretion. 

If  Monsieur  le  Vidame  or  I  could  have  gone  to  see  you  we 
would  not  have  written.  But  I  make  no  doubt  that  you 
will  regard  the  prayer  of  a  mother,  who  begs  you  to  destroy 
this  letter. 

Accept  the  assurance  of  my  perfect  consideration. 

Baronne  de  Maulincour,  ne'e  de  Rieux. 

"  Oh  !  what  torture  !  "  cried  Jules. 

"What  is  it?  what  is  in  your  mind?''  asked  his 
wife,  exhibiting  the  deepest  anxiety. 

"  I  have  come,"  he  answered,  slowlj',  as  he  threw  her 
the  letter,  "  to  ask  myself  whether  it  can  be  3'ou  who 
have  sent  me  that  to  avert  m^'  suspicions.  Judge, 
therefore,  what  I  suffer." 

"Unhappy  man!"  said  Madame  Jules,  letting  fall 
the  paper.  "  I  pity  him  ;  though  he  has  done  me  great 
harm." 

"  Are  3'ou  aware  that  he  has  spoken  to  me?  " 


Ferragus.  93 

"Oh!  have  3'on  been  to  see  him,  in  spite  of  your 
promise?"  she  cried  in  terror. 

*'  Clemence,  our  love  is  in  danger  of  perishing ;  we 
stand  outside  of  the  ordinar}^  rules  of  life ;  let  us 
lay  aside  all  pett}'  considerations  in  presence  of  this 
great  peril.  Explain  to  me  why  you  went  out  this 
morning.  Women  think  the}'  have  the  right  to  tell  us 
little  falsehoods.  Sometimes  they  like  to  hide  a  pleas- 
ure they  are  preparing  for  us.  Just  now  you  said  a 
word  to  me,  b}'  mistake  no  doubt,  a  no  for  a  3'es." 

He  went  into  the  dressing-room  and  brought  out  the 
bonnet. 

"  See,"  he  said,  "  your  bonnet  betrayed  you  ;  these 
spots  are  raindrops.  You  must,  therefore,  have  gone 
out  in  a  street  cab,  and  these  drops  fell  upon  it  as  3'on 
went  to  find  one,  or  as  you  entered  or  left  the  house 
where  you  went.  But  a  woman  can  leave  her  own 
home  for  man}'  innocent  purposes,  even  after  she  has 
told  her  husband  that  she  did  not  mean  to  20  out. 
There  are  so  many  reasons  for  changing  our  plans ! 
Caprices,  whims,  are  they  not  your  right?  Women  are 
not  required  to  be  consistent  with  themselves.  You 
had  forgotten  something,  —  a  service  to  render,  a  visit, 
some  kind  action.  But  nothing  hinders  a  woman  from 
telling  her  husband  what  she  does.  Can  we  ever  blush 
on  the  breast  of  a  friend?  It  is  not  a  jealous  husband 
who  speaks   to  you,  my   Clemence  ;  it  is  your  lover, 


94  Fcrragus. 

your  friend,  3'our  brother."  He  flung  himself  passion- 
ately at  her  feet.  "  Speak,  not  to  justify  yourself,  but 
to  calm  my  horrible  sufferings.  I  know  that  3'ou  went 
out.     Well  —  what  did  you  do?  where  did  you  go?  " 

"  Yes,  1  went  out,  Jules,"  she  answered  in  a  strained 
voice,  though  her  face  was  calm.  "  But  ask  me  noth- 
ing more.  Wait ;  have  confidence  ;  without  which  30U 
will  lay  up  for  yourself  terrible  remorse.  Jules,  my 
Jules,  trust  is  the  virtue  of  love.  I  own  to  you  that  I 
am  at  this  moment  too  troubled  to  answer  3'ou :  but  I 
am  not  a  false  woman  ;  I  love  3  ou,  and  3'ou  know  it." 

"  In  the  midst  of  all  that  can  shake  the  faith  of  man 
and  rouse  his  jealous3',  for  I  see  I  am  not  first  in  3  our 
heart,  I  am  no  longer  thine  own  self —  well,  Clemence, 
even  so,  I  prefer  to  believe  3'ou,  to  believe  that  voice,  to 
believe  those  eyes.     If  you  deceive  me,  you  deserve  —  " 

"  Ten  thousand  deaths  !  "  she  cried,  interrupting  him. 

"  I  have  never  hidden  a  thought  from  you,  but3'ou — " 

''Hush!"  she  said,  "our  happiness  depends  upon 
our  mutual  silence." 

"  Ha!  I  will  know  all!  "  he  exclaimed,  with  sudden 
violence. 

At  that  moment  the  cries  of  a  woman  were  heard,  — 
the  3'elping  of  a  shrill  little  voice  came  from  the  ante- 
chamber. 

"  I  tell  you  I  will  go  in  !  "  it  cried.  "  Yes,  I  shall 
go  in  ;  I  will  see  her !  I  shall  see  her !  " 


Ferragus.  95 

Jules  and  Cleraence  both  ran  to  the  salon  as  the  door 
from  the  antechamber  was  violently  burst  open.  A 
young  woman  entered  hastih',  followed  by  two  ser- 
vants, who  said  to  their  master :  — 

"  Monsieur,  this  person  would  come  in  in  spite  of 
us.  We  told  her  that  madame  was  not  at  home.  She 
answered  that  she  knew  very  well  madame  had  been 
out,  but  she  saw  her  come  in.  She  threatened  to 
stay  at  the  door  of  the  house  till  she  could  speak  to 
madame." 

"  You  can  go,"  said  Monsieur  Desmarets  to  the  two 
men.  "What  do  you  want,  mademoiselle?  "  he  added, 
turning  to  the  strange  woman. 

This  "  demoiselle"  was  the  tj^pe  of  a  woman  who  is 
never  to  be  met  with  except  in  Paris.  She  is  made  in 
Paris,  like  the  mud,  like  the  pavement,  like  the  water 
of  the  Seine,  such  as  it  becomes  in  Paris  before  human 
industry  filters  it  ten  times  ere  it  enters  the  cut- 
glass  decanters  and  sparkles  pure  and  bright  from  the 
filth  it  has  been.  She  is  therefore  a  being  who  is  truly 
original.  Depicted  scores  of  times  by  the  painter's 
brush,  the  pencil  of  the  caricaturist,  the  charcoal  of  the 
etcher,  she  still  escapes  analysis,  because  she  cannot 
be  caught  and  rendered  in  all  her  moods,  like  Nature, 
like  this  fantastic  Paris  itself  She  holds  to  vice  b}^ 
one  thread  onh',  and  she  breaks  away  from  it  at  a 
thousand  other  points  of  the  social  circumference.     Be- 


96  Ferragus. 

sides,  she  lets  only  one  trait  of  her  character  be  known, 
and  that  the  onl}^  one  which  renders  her  blamable ; 
her  noble  virtues  are  hidden  ;  she  prefers  to  glor3'  in 
her  naive  libertinism.  Most  incomplete^  rendered  in 
dramas  and  tales  where  she  is  put  upon  the  scene  with 
all  her  poes}',  she  is  nowhere  reall}^  true  but  in  her 
garret ;  elsewhere  she  is  invariably  calumniated  or 
over-praised.  Rich,  she  deteriorates  ;  poor,  she  is  mis- 
understood. She  has  too  many  vices,  and  too  man}' 
good  qualities  ;  she  is  too  near  to  pathetic  asphyxiation 
or  to  a  dissolute  laugh  :  too  beautiful  and  too  hideous. 
She  personifies  Paris,  to  which,  in  the  long  run,  she 
supplies  the  toothless  portresses,  washerwomen,  street- 
sweepers,  beggars,  occasional!}'  insolent  countesses, 
admired  actresses,  applauded  singers ;  she  has  even 
given,  in  the  olden  time,  two  quasi-queens  to  the  mon- 
arch3\  AVho  can  grasp  such  a  Proteus?  She  is  all 
woman,  less  than  woman,  more  than  woman.  From 
this  vast  portrait  the  painter  of  manners  and  morals 
can  take  but  a  feature  here  and  there  ;  the  ensemble  is 
infinite. 

She  was  a  grisette  of  Paris ;  a  grisette  in  all  her 
glory  ;  a  grisette  in  a  hackne3'-coach,  —  happ}',  young, 
handsome,  fresh,  but  a  grisette ;  a  grisette  with  claws, 
scissors,  impudent  as  a  Spanish  woman,  snarling  as  a 
prudish  English  woman  proclaiming  her  conjugal  rights, 
coquettish   as  a  great   lad}',  though   more  frank,  and 


Ferragus.  97 

ready  for  everj'thing ;  a  perfect  lionne  in  her  wa}' ; 
issuing  from  the  little  apartment  of  which  she  had 
dreamed  so  often,  with  its  red-calico  curtains,  its 
Utrecht  velvet  furniture,  its  tea-table,  the  cabinet  of 
china  with  painted  designs,  the  sofa,  the  little  moquette 
carpet,  the  alabaster  clock  and  candlesticks  (under 
glass  cases) ,  the  yellow  bedroom,  the  eider-down  quilt, 
—  in  short,  all  the  domestic  joys  of  a  grisette's  life  ; 
and  in  addition,  the  woman-of-all-work  (a  former 
grisette  herself,  now  the  owner  of  a  moustache), 
theatre-parties,  unlimited  bonbons,  silk  dresses,  bon- 
nets to  spoil,  —  in  fact,  all  the  felicities  coveted  by  the 
grisette  heart  except  a  carriage,  which  only  enters  her 
imagination  as  a  marshal's  baton  into  the  dreams  of  a 
soldier.  Yes,  this  grisette  had  all  these  things  in  return 
for  a  true  affection,  or  in  spite  of  a  true  affection,  as 
some  others  obtain  it  for  an  hour  a  da}',  —  a  sort  of  tax 
carelessly  paid  under  the  claws  of  an  old  man. 

The  3'oung  woman  who  now  entered  the  presence  of 
Monsieur  and  Madame  Jules  had  a  pair  of  feet  so  little 
covered  by  her  shoes  that  only  a  slim  black  line  was 
visible  between  the  carpet  and  her  white  stockings. 
This  peculiar  foot-gear,  which  Parisian  caricaturists 
have  well  rendered,  is  a  special  attribute  of  the  grisette 
of  Paris;  but  she  is  even  more  distinctive  to  the  eyes 
of  an  observer  by  the  care  with  which  her  garments  are 
made  to  adhere  to  her  form,  which  they  clearlj'  define. 


98  Ferragus. 

On  this  occasion  she  was  trigly  dressed  in  a  green 
gown,  with  a  white  chemisette,  which  allowed  the 
beaut}'  of  her  bust  to  be  seen ;  her  shawl,  of  Ternaux 
cashmere,  had  fallen  from  her  shoulders,  and  was  held 
by  its  two  corners,  which  were  twisted  round  her 
wrists.  She  had  a  delicate  face,  ros}^  cheeks,  a  white 
skin,  sparkling  gray  eyes,  a  round,  very  prominent 
forehead,  hair  carefully  smoothed  beneath  her  little 
bonnet,  and  heavy  curls  upon  her  neck. 

^'M}''  name  is  Ida,"  she  began,  "  and  if  that's  Ma- 
dame Jules  to  whom  I  have  the  advantage  of  speaking, 
I  've  come  to  tell  her  all  I  have  in  my  heart  against 
her.  It  is  \evy  wrong,  when  a  woman  is  set  up  and  in 
her  furniture,  as  you  are  here,  to  come  and  take  from 
a  poor  girl  a  man  with  whom  I  'm  as  good  as  married, 
morally,  and  who  did  talk  of  making  it  right  b}^  raarr}'- 
ing  me  before  the  municipalit}'.  There 's  plent}-  of 
handsome  3"oung  men  in  the  world  —  ain't  there,  mon- 
sieur?—  to  take  your  fanc}',  without  going  after  a  man 
of  middle  age,  who  makes  ni}^  happiness.  Yah !  I 
haven't  got  a  fine  h6tel  like  this,  but  I  've  got  my  love, 
I  have.  I  hate  handsome  men  and  money  ;  I  'm  all 
heart,  and  —  " 

Madame  Jules  turned  to  her  husband. 

"  You  will  allow  me,  monsieur,  to  hear  no  more  of 
all  this,"  she  said,  retreating  to  her  bedroom. 

"If  the  lad}'  lives  with  you,  I've  made  a  mess  of 


Fer  vagus.  99 

it;  but  I  can't  help  that,"  resumed  Ida.  "  Wliy  does 
she  come  after  Monsieur  Ferragus  every  day  ? " 

"You  are  mistaken,  mademoiselle,"  said  Jules,  stu- 
pefied ;    "  my  wife  is  incapable —  " 

"  Ha  !  so  you  're  married,  you  two,"  said  the  grisette 
showing  some  surprise.  "  Then  it's  very  wrong,  mon- 
sieur, —  is  n't  it  ?  —  for  a  woman  who  has  the  happi- 
ness of  being  married  in  legal  marriage  to  have  rela- 
tions with  a  man  like  Henri  — " 

"  Henri!  who  is  Henri?"  said  Jules,  taking  Ida  by 
the  arm  and  pulling  her  into  an  adjoining  room  that 
his  wife  might  hear  no  more. 

*'  Wh}'',  Monsieur  Ferragus." 

"  But  he  is  dead,"  said  Jules. 

"Nonsense;  I  went  to  Franconi's  with  him  last 
night,  and  he  brought  me  home  —  as  he  ought.  Be- 
sides, your  wife  can  tell  you  about  him ;  did  n't  she 
go  there  this  very  afternoon  at  three  o'clock?  I  know 
she  did,  for  I  waited  in  the  street,  and  saw  her,  — 
all  because  that  good-natured  fellow,  Monsieur  Justin, 
whom  3'ou  know  perhaps,  —  a  little  old  man  with  jew- 
elr}''  who  wears  corsets,  —  told  me  that  Madame  Jules 
was  my  rival.  That  name,  monsieur,  sounds  might}^ 
like  a  feigned  one  ;  but  if  it  is  3'ours,  excuse  me.  But 
this  I  say,  if  Madame  Jules  was  a  court  duchess,  Henri 
is  rich  enough  to  satisfy  all  her  fancies,  and  it  is  my 
business  to  protect  my  property;   I've  a  right  to,  for 


100  Fer  vagus. 

I  love  him,  that  I  do.  He  is  my  first  inclination  ;  mj' 
happiness  and  all  my  future  fate  depends  on  it.  I  fear 
nothing,  monsieur  ;  I  am  honest ;  I  never  lied,  or  stole 
the  property  of  any  living  soul,  no  matter  who.  If 
an  empress  was  my  rival,  I  'd  go  straight  to  her,  em- 
press as  she  was  ;  because  all  pretty  women  are  equals, 
monsieur  —  " 

"Enough!  enough!"  said  Jules.  "Where  do  you 
live?" 

"  Rue  de  la  Corderie-du-Temple,  number  14,  mon- 
sieur,—  Ida  Gruget,  corset-maker,  at  your  service, — 
for  we  make  lots  of  corsets  for  men." 

"  Where  does  the  man  whom  3'ou  call  Ferragus 
live?" 

"  Monsieur,"  she  said,  pursing  up  her  lips,  "  in  the 
first  place,  he 's  not  a  man  ;  he  is  a  rich  monsieur, 
much  richer,  perhaps,  than  you  are.  But  win'  do  j'ou 
ask  me  his  address  when  3'oar  wife  knows  it?  He  told 
me  not  to  give  it.  Am  I  obliged  to  answer  you?  I  'm 
not,  thank  God,  in  a  confessional  or  a  police-court ; 
I'm  responsible  onlj^  to  m3'self." 

"If  I  were  to  offer  you  ten  thousand  francs  to  tell 
me  where  Monsieur  Ferragus  lives,  how  then?" 

"  Ha!  n,  o,  ?io,  my  little  friend,  and  that  ends  the 
matter,"  she  said,  emphasizing  this  singular  rcpl}'  with 
a  popular  gesture.  "There's  no  sum  in  the  world 
could  make  me  tell  you.  I  have  the  honor  to  bid  you 
good-da3\     How  do  I  get  out  of  here?" 


Ferragus.  \    '.  *'',•''',         .401 

*' Jules,  horror-struck,  allowed  , 'her  >.o '  go  v\!t!i6at 
further  notice.  The  whole  world  seemed  to  crumble 
beneath  his  feet,  and  above  him  the  heavens  were 
falling  with  a  crash. 

"  Monsieur  is  served,"  said  his  valet. 

The  valet  and  the  footman  waited  in  the  dining-room 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  without  seeing  master  or  mistress. 

"  Madame  will  not  dine  to-day,"  said  the  waiting- 
maid,  coming  in. 

''  What 's  the  matter,  Josephine?  "    asked  the  valet. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered.  "  Madame  is  crying, 
and  is  going  to  bed.  Monsieur  has  no  doubt  got  some 
love-affair  on  hand,  and  it  has  been  discovered  at  a 
ver}'  bad  time.  I  would  n't  answer  for  raadame's  life. 
Men  are  so  clums}^ ;  they  '11  make  you  scenes  without 
any  precaution." 

^'That's  not  so,"  said  the  valet,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  On  the  contrar}',  madame  is  the  one  who  —  30U  under- 
stand? What  time  does  monsieur  have  to  go  after 
pleasures,  he,  who  has  n't  slept  out  of  madame's  room 
for  five  years,  who  goes  to  his  stud}'  at  ten  and  never 
leaves  it  till  breakfast,  at  twelve.  His  life  is  all  known, 
it  is  regular ;  whereas  madame  goes  out  nearly  ever}' 
day  at  three  o'clock.  Heaven  knows  where." 

"  And  monsieur  too,"  said  the  maid,  taking  her  mis- 
tress's part. 

"  Yes,  but  he  goes  straight  to  the  Bourse.     I  told 


102  Ferragus. 

him  triree  tiwea  that  dinner  was  ready,"  continued  the 
valet,  after  a  pause.  "You  might  as  well  talk  to  a 
post." 

Monsieur  Jules  entered  the  dining-room. 

"  Where  is  madame?  "   he  said. 

' '  Madame  is  going  to  bed  ;  her  head  aches,"  replied 
the  maid,  assuming  an  air  of  importance. 

Monsieur  Jules  then  said  to  the  footmen  com- 
posedl}^ :  "'  You  can  take  away  ;  I  shall  go  and  sit  with 
madame." 

He  went  to  his  wife's  room  and  found  her  weeping, 
but  endeavoring  to  smother  her  sobs  with  her  hand- 
kerchief. 

' '  Whj'  do  3'ou  weep  ?  "  said  Jules  ;  ' '  3'ou  need  ex- 
pect no  violence  and  no  reproaches  from  me.  Wh}" 
should  I  avenge  m3'self  ?  If  you  have  not  been  faithful 
to  my  love,  it  is  that  3'ou  were  never  worthy  of  it." 

"Not  worth3'?"  The  words  were  repeated  amid 
her  sobs  and  the  accent  in  which  the3'  were  said  would 
have  moved  an3'  other  man  than  Jules. 

"To  kill  3'ou,  I  must  love  more  than  perhaps  I  do 
love  3'Ou,"  he  continued.  "  But  I  should  never  have  the 
courage ;  I  would  rather  kill  m3'self,  leaving  j'ou  to 
your  —  happiness,  and  with  —  whom  !  —  " 

He  did  not  end  his  sentence. 

"Kill  3'ourself!"  she  cried,  flinging  herself  at  his 
feet  and  clasping  them. 


Ferragus.  103 

But  he,  wishing  to  escape  the  embrace,  tried  to  shake 
her  off,  dragging  her  in  so  doing  toward  the  bed. 

"  Let  me  alone,"  he  said. 

"No,  no,  Jules  ! "  she  cried.  "  If  you  love  me  no 
longer  I  shall  die.     Do  you  wish  to  know  all  ? '' 

"Yes." 

He  took  her,  grasped  her  violently,  and  sat  down 
on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  holding  her  between  his  legs. 
Then,  looking  at  that  beautiful  face  now  red  as  fire  and 
furrowed  with  tears,  — 

"  Speak,"  he  said. 

Her  sobs  began  again. 

"No;  it  is  a  secret  of  life  and  death.  If  I  tell  it, 
I  —     No,  I  cannot.     Have  mercy,  Jules  !  " 

"You  have  betrayed  me  —  " 

"Ah!  Jules,  j'ou  think  so  now,  but  soon  you  will 
know  all." 

"But  this  Ferragus,  this  convict  whom  3'ou  go  to 
see,  a  man  enriched  by  crime,  if  he  does  not  belong  to 
you,  if  3'ou  do  not  belong  to  him  —  " 

"Oh,  Jules!" 

"  Speak  !  Is  he  3'our  mysterious  benefactor?  —  the 
man  to  whom  we  owe  our  fortune,  as  persons  have 
said  already?" 

"Who  said  that?" 

"  A  man  whom  I  killed  in  a  duel." 

"  Oh,  God  !  one  death  already  ! " 


104  Ferragus. 

"  If  he  is  not  your  protector,  if  he  does  not  give  3'ou 
mone}',  if  it  is  3'Ou,  on  the  contrary,  who  carry  money 
to  him,  tell  me,  is  he  your  brother?" 

"  What  if  he  were?  "  she  said. 

Monsieur  Desmarets  crossed  his  arms. 

"Why  should  that  have  been  concealed  from  me?" 
he  said.  "Then  3'ou  and  your  mother  have  both  de- 
ceived me?  Besides,  does  a  woman  go  to  see  her 
brother  ever}^  day,  or  nearly  ever}'  day?" 

His  wife  had  fainted  at  his  feet. 

"  Dead,"  he  said.     '•  And  suppose  I  am  mistaken  ?  " 

He  sprang  to  the  bell-rope  ;  called  Josephine,  and 
lifted  Clemence  to  the  bed. 

"  I  shall  die  of  this,"  said  Madame  Jules,  recovering 
consciousness. 

"Josephine,"  cried  Monsieur  Desmarets.  "Send  for 
Monsieur  Desplein ;  send  also  to  mj-  brother  and  ask 
him  to  come  here  immediately." 

"  Why  3^our  brother?"  asked  Clemence. 

But  Jules  had  alreadv  left  the  room. 


Ferragus.  105 


lY. 

WHERE    GO   TO    DIE? 

For  the  first  time  in  five  years  Madame  Jules  slept 
alone  in  her  bed,  and  was  compelled  to  admit  a  physi- 
cian into  that  sacred  chamber.  These  in  themselves 
were  two  keen  pangs.  Desplein  found  Madame  Jules 
very  ill.  Never  was  a  violent  emotion  more  untimely. 
He  would  say  nothing  definite,  and  postponed  till  the 
morrow  giving  any  opinion,  after  leaving  a  few  direc- 
tions, which  were  not  executed,  the  emotions  of  the 
heart  causing  all  bodily  cares  to  be  forgotten. 

When  morning  dawned,  Clemence  had  not  yet  slept. 
Her  mind  was  absorbed  in  the  low  murmur  of  a  conver- 
sation which  lasted  several  hours  between  the  brothers  ; 
but  the  thickness  of  the  walls  allowed  no  word  which 
could  betra}'  the  object  of  this  long  conference  to  reach 
her  ears.  Monsieur  Desmarets,  the  notarv,  went  awa}' 
at  last.  The  stillness  of  the  night,  and  the  singular 
activity  of  the  senses  given  by  powerful  emotion,  en- 
abled Clemence  to  distinguish  the  scratching  of  a  pen 
and  the  involuntary  movements  of  a  person  engaged  in 
writing.  Those  who  are  habitually  up  at  night,  and 
who  observe  the  different  acoustic  effects  produced  in 


106  Ferragus. 

absolute  silence,  know  that  a  slight  echo  can  be  readily 
perceived  in  the  very  places  where  louder  but  more 
equable  and  continued  murmurs  are  not  distinct.  At 
four  o'clock  the  sound  ceased.  Clemence  rose,  anxious 
and  trembling.  Then,  with  bare  feet  and  without  a 
wrapper,  forgetting  her  illness  and  her  moist  condi- 
tion, the  poor  woman  opened  the  door  softlj'  without 
noise  and  looked  into  the  next  room.  She  saw  her 
husband  sitting,  with  a  pen  in  his  hand,  asleep  in  his 
arm-chair.  The  candles  had  burned  to  the  sockets. 
She  slowly  advanced  and  read  on  an  envelope,  already 
sealed,  the  words,  "This  is  my  will." 

She  knelt  down  as  if  before  an  open  grave  and  kissed 
her  husband's  hand.     He  woke  instantly. 

''Jules,  m}^  friend,  the}'  grant  some  da^-s  to  crimi- 
nals condemned  to  death,"  she  said,  looking  at  him 
with  eyes  that  blazed  with  fever  and  with  love.  "  Your 
innocent  wife  asks  only  two.  Leave  me  free  for  two 
days,  and  —  wait!  After  that,  I  shall  die  happy  —  at 
least,  you  will  regret  me." 

"  Clemence,  I  grant  them." 

Then,  as  she  kissed  her  husband's  hands  in  the  ten- 
der transport  of  her  heart,  Jules,  under  the  spell  of  that 
cr\'  of  innocence,  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her 
forehead,  though  ashamed  to  feel  himself  still  under 
subjection  to  the  power  of  that  noble  beauty. 

On  the  morrow,  after  taking  a  few  hours'  rest,  Jules 


Ferragus.  107 

entered  his  wife's  room,  obeying  mechanicalh'  his  in- 
variable custom  of  not  leaving  the  house  without  a 
word  to  her.  Clemence  was  sleeping.  A  ray  of  light 
passing  through  a  chink  in  the  upper  blind  of  a  window 
fell  across  the  face  of  the  dejected  woman.  Already 
suffering  had  impaired  her  forehead  and  the  fresh  red- 
ness of  her  lips.  A  lover's  eye  could  not  fail  to  notice 
the  appearance  of  dark  blotches,  and  a  sickly  pallor  in 
place  of  the  uniform  tone  of  the  cheeks  and  the  pure 
ivory  whiteness  of  the  skin,  —  two  points  at  which  the 
sentiments  of  her  noble  soul  were  artlessly  wont  to 
show  themselves. 

"She  suffers,"  thought  Jules.  "Poor  Clemence! 
Ma}^  God  protect  us  !  " 

He  kissed  her  very  softly  on  the  forehead.  She 
woke,  saw  her  husband,  and  remembered  all.  Unable 
to  speak,  she  took  his  hand,  her  e3"es  filling  with 
tears. 

"I  am  innocent,"  she  said,  ending  her  dream. 

"  You  will  not  go  out  to-daj',  will  3'ou  ?  "  asked  Jules. 

"  No,  I  feel  too  weak  to  leave  my  bed." 

"  If  you  should  change  your  mind,  wait  till  I  return," 
said  Jules. 

Then  he  went  down  to  the  porter's  lodge. 

"  Fouguereau,  you  will  watch  the  door  yourself  to- 
da}'.  I  wish  to  know  exactly  who  comes  to  the  house, 
and  who  leaves  it." 


108  Ferragus. 

Then  he  threw  himself  into  a  hackne}'- coach,  and  was 
driven  to  the  hotel  de  Maulincour,  where  he  asked  for 
the  baron. 

"  Monsieur  is  ill,"  they  told  him. 

Jules  insisted  on  entering,  and  gave  his  name.  If  he 
could  not  see  the  baron,  he  wished  to  see  the  vidame 
or  the  dowager.  He  waited  some  time  in  the  salon, 
where  Madame  de  Maulincour  finally  came  to  him  and 
told  him  that  her  grandson  was  much  too  ill  to  receive 
him. 

"  I  know,  madame,  the  nature  of  his  illness  from  the 
letter  you  did  me  the  honor  to  write,  and  I  beg  you  to 
believe  —  " 

"  A  letter  to  you,  monsieur,  written  b}^  me !  "  cried 
the  dowager,  interrupting  him.  ''  I  have  written  you 
no   letter.     What   was  I  made  to   sa}'   in  that  letter, 


monsieur 


9  " 


"Madame,"  replied  Jules,  "intending  to  see  Mon- 
sieur de  Maulincour  to-day,  I  thought  it  best  to  pre- 
serve the  letter  in  spite  of  its  injunction  to  destroy  it. 
There  it  is." 

Madame  de  Maulincour  put  on  her  spectacles,  and 
the  moment  she  cast  her  ej'es  on  the  paper  she  showed 
the  utmost  siu-prise. 

"Monsieur,"  she  said,  "my  writing  is  so  perfectly 
imitated  that,  if  the  matter  were  not  so  recent,  I  might 
be  deceived  myself.     My  grandson  is  ill,  it  is  true  ;  but 


Ferragiis.  109 

his  reason  has  never  for  a  moment  been  affected.  We 
are  the  puppets  of  some  evil-minded  person  or  persons ; 
and  yet  I  cannot  imagine  the  object  of  a  trick  like  this. 
You  shall  see  m}'  grandson,  monsieur,  and  3'ou  will  at 
once  perceive  that  he  is  perfectl}*  sound  in  mind." 

She  rang  the  bell,  and  sent  to  ask  if  the  baron  felt 
able  to  receive  Monsieur  Desmarets.  The  servant  re- 
turned with  an  affirmative  answer.  Jules  went  to  the 
baron's  room,  where  he  found  him  in  an  arm-chair  near 
the  fire.  Too  feeble  to  move,  the  unfortunate  man 
merely  bowed  his  head  with  a  melanchol}'  gesture.  The 
Vidame  de  Pamiers  was  sitting  with  him. 

"  Monsieur  le  baron,"  said  Jules,  "  I  have  something 
to  say  which  makes  it  desirable  that  I  should  see  you 
alone." 

"  Monsieur,"  replied  Auguste,  "  Monsieur  le  vidame 
knows  about  this  affair  ;  you  can  speak  fearlessl}'  before 
him." 

"  Monsieur  le  baron,"  said  Jules,  in  a  grave  voice, 
"  you  have  troubled  and  well-nigh  destroyed  m}'  happi- 
ness without  having  any  right  to  do  so.  Until  the 
moment  when  we  can  see  clearl}'  which  of  us  should 
demand,  or  grant,  reparation  to  the  other,  you  are 
bound  to  help  me  in  following  the  dark  and  mysterious 
pa.th  into  which  you  have  flung  me.  I  have  now  come 
to  ascertain  from  you  the  present  residence  of  the  ex- 
traordinarv  beinsj  who  exercises  such  a  baneful  effect 


110  Ferragus. 

on  your  life  and  mine.  On  xny  return  home  j^ester- 
day,  after  listening  to  your  avowals,  I  received  that 
letter." 

Jules  gave  hira  the  forged  letter. 

"  This  Ferragus,  this  Bourignard,  or  this  Monsieur 
de  Funcal,  is  a  demon  !  "  cried  Maulincour,  after  hav- 
ing read  it.  "  Oh,  what  a  frightful  maze  I  put  my  foot 
into  when  I  meddled  in  this  matter  I  Where  am  I 
going?  I  did  wrong,  monsieur,"  he  continued,  looking 
at  Jules  ;  "  but  death  is  the  greatest  of  all  expiations, 
and  m}'^  death  is  now  approaching.  You  can  ask  me 
whatever  you  like ;  I  am   at  your  orders." 

"Monsieur,  you  know,  of  course,  where  this  man  is 
living,  and  I  must  know  it  if  it  costs  me  all  my  fortune 
to  penetrate  this  mystery.  In  presence  of  so  cruel  an 
enemy  every  moment  is  precious." 

"Justin  shall  tell  you  all,"  replied  the  baron. 

At  these  words  the  vidame  fidgeted  on  his  chair. 
Auguste  rang  the  bell. 

"  Justin  is  not  in  the  house  !  "  cried  the  vidame,  in  a 
hasty  manner  that  told  much. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Auguste,  excitedlj',  "the  other 
servants  must  know  where  he  is ;  send  a  man  on  horse- 
back to  fetch  him.  Your  valet  is  in  Paris,  isn't  he? 
He  can  be  found." 

The  vidame  was  visibly  distressed. 

"  Justin  canH  come,  my  dear  boy,"  said  the  old  man  ; 


Ferragus.  Ill 

"  he  is  dead.  I  wanted  to  conceal  the  accident  from 
3^ou,  but  —  " 

"  Dead  !  "  cried  Monsieur  de  Maulincour,  —  "  dead  ! 
When  and  how  ?  " 

"  Last  night.  He  had  been  supping  with  some  old 
friends,  and,  I  dare  say,  was  drunk;  his  friends — no 
doubt  they  were  drunk,  too  —  left  him  lying  in  the 
street,  and  a  heavy  vehicle  ran  over  him." 

"  The  convict  did  not  miss  him;  at  the  first  stroke 
he  killed,"  said  Auguste.  "  He  has  had  less  luck 
with  me  ;  it  has  taken  four  blows  to  put  me  out  of  the 
way." 

Jules  was  gloom}^  and  thoughtful. 

"Am  I  to  know  nothing,  then?"  he  cried,  after  a 
long  pause.  "  Your  valet  seems  to  have  been  justly 
punished.  Did  he  not  exceed  your  orders  in  calumni- 
ating Madame  Desmarets  to  a  person  named  Ida, 
whose  jealousy  he  roused  in  order  to  turn  her  vindic- 
tiveness  upon  us." 

"Ah,  monsieur!  in  my  anger  I  informed  him  about 
Madame  Jules,"  said  Auguste. 

"Monsieur!"  cried  the  husband,  keenly  irritated. 

"  Oh,  monsieur  !  "  replied  the  baron,  claiming  silence 
by  a  gesture,  "  I  am  prepared  for  all.  You  cannot  tell 
me  anything  m}'  own  conscience  has  not  alread\'  told 
me.  I  am  now  expecting  the  most  celebrated  of  all 
professors  of  toxicology,  in  order  to  learn  my  fate.     If 


112  Ferragus. 

I  am  destined  to  intolerable  suffering,  my  resolution  is 
taken.     I  shall  blow  my  brains  out." 

"  You  talk  like  a  child!  "  cried  the  vidame,  horrified 
by  the  coolness  with  which  the  baron  said  these  words. 
^'  Your  grandmother  would  die  of  grief." 

"  Then,  monsieur,"  said  Jules,  "  am  I  to  understand 
that  there  exist  no  means  of  discovering  in  what  part 
of  Paris  this  extraordinary  man  resides?" 

"I  think,  monsieur,"  said  the  old  vidame,  "from 
what  I  have  heard  poor  Justin  sa}',  that  Monsieur 
de  Funcal  lives  at  either  the  Portuguese  or  the  Bra- 
zilian embassy.  Monsieur  de  Funcal  is  a  nobleman  be- 
longing to  both  those  countries.  As  for  the  convict,  he 
is  dead  and  buried.  Your  persecutor,  w^hoever  he  is, 
seems  to  me  so  powerful  that  it  would  be  well  to  take 
no  decisive  measures  until  3'ou  are  sure  of  some  w^ay  of 
confounding  and  crushing  him.  Act  prudentl}'  and 
witli  caution,  my  dear  monsieur.  Had  Monsieur  de 
Maulincour  followed  my  advice,  nothing  of  all  this 
would  have  happened." 

Jules  coldly  but  politely  withdrew.  He  was  now  at 
a  total  loss  to  know  how  to  reach  Ferragus.  As  he 
passed  into  his  own  house,  the  porter  told  him  that 
Madame  had  just  been  out  to  throw  a  letter  into 
the  post  box  at  the  head  of  the  rue  de  Menars. 
Jules  felt  humiliated  by  this  proof  of  the  insight  with 
which  the  porter  espoused  his  cause,  and  the  cleverness 


Ferragus.  113 

by  which  he  guessed  the  way  to  serve  him.     The  eager- 
ness of  servants,  and  their  shrewdness  in  compromising 
masters  who  compromise   themselves,   was   known  to 
him,   and    he  fully   appreciated  the  danger  of  having 
them  as  accomplices,  no  matter  for  what  purpose.     But 
he  could  not  think  of  his  personal  dignit}'  until  tlic 
moment   when    he   found    himself    thus    suddenly   de- 
graded.    What  a  triumph  for  the  slave  who  could  not 
raise  himself  to  his   master,  to  compel  his  master  to 
come  down  to  his  level !     Jules  was  harsh  and  hard  to 
him.     Another  fault.     But  he  suffered  so  deeph' !     His 
life  till  then  so  upright,  so  pure,  was  becoming  crafty ; 
he   was  to  scheme   and  lie.     Clemence   was  scheming 
and  lying.     This  to  him  was  a  moment  of  horrible  dis- 
gust.    Lost  in   a  flood  of  bitter  feelings,  Jules  stood 
motionless  at  the  door  of  his  house.     Yielding  to  de- 
spair, he  thought  of  fleeing,  of  leaving  France  forever, 
carrying  with  him  the  illusions  of  uncertaint3\     Then, 
again,  not  doubting  that  the  letter  Clemence  had  just 
posted  was  addressed  to  Ferragus,  his  mind  searched 
for  a  means  of  obtaining  the  answer  that  mj'sterious 
being  was  certain  to  send.     Then  his  thoughts  began 
to  analj'ze  the  singular  good  fortune  of  his  life  since 
his  marriage,  and  he  asked  himself  whether  the  cal- 
umny for  which  he  had  taken  such  signal  vengeance  was 
not  a  truth.     Finally,  reverting  to  the  coming  answer, 
he  said  to  himself:  — 

8 


114  Ferragus. 

*'But  this  'mail;  so  profoundh'  capable,  so  logical  in 
his  ever}'  act,  who  sees  and  foresees,  who  calculates, 
and  even  divines,  our  very  thoughts,  is  he  likel}^  to 
make  an  answer?  Will  he  not  emploj'  some  other 
means  more  in  keeping  with  his  power?  He  ma}'  send 
his  answer  b}'  some  beggar ;  or  in  a  carton  brought 
by  an  honest  man,  who  does  not  suspect  what  he 
brings ;  or  in  some  parcel  of  shoes,  which  a  shop-girl 
may  innocently  deliver  to  my  wife.  If  Clemence  and 
he  have  agreed  upon  such  means  — " 

He  distrusted  all  things ;  his  mind  ran  over  vast 
tracts  and  shoreless  oceans  of  conjecture.  Then,  after 
floating  for  a  time  among  a  thousand  contradictor}^ 
ideas,  he  felt  he  was  strongest  in  his  own  house,  and 
he  resolved  to  watch  it  as  the  ant-lion  watches  his 
sandy  labyrinth. 

'^  Fouguereau,"  he  said  to  the  porter,  "  I  am  not  at 
home  to  any  one  who  comes  to  see  me.  If  any  one 
calls  to  see  madame,  or  brings  her  anything,  ring 
twice.  Bring  all  letters  addressed  here  to  me,  no  mat- 
ter for  whom  they  are  intended." 

"Thus,"  thought  he,  as  he  entered  his  study,  which 
was  in  the  entresol,  "I  forestall  the  schemes  of  this 
Ferragus.  If  he  sends  some  one  to  ask  for  me  so  as 
to  find  out  if  Clemence  is  alone,  at  least  I  shall  not 
be  tricked  like  a  fool." 

He  stood  by  the  window  of  his  study,  which  looked 


Ferragus.  115 

upon  the  street,  and  then  a  final  scheme,  inspired  b}- 
jealousy,  came  into  his  mind.  He  resolved  to  send 
his  head-clerk  in  his  own  carriage  to  the  Bourse  with 
a  letter  to  another  broker,  explaining  his  sales  and 
purchases  and  requesting  him  to  do  his  business  for 
that  day.  He  postponed  his  more  delicate  transactions 
till  the  morrow,  indifferent  to  the  fall  or  rise  of  stocks 
or  the  debts  of  all  Europe.  High  privilege  of  love  !  — 
it  crushes  all  things,  all  interests  fall  before  it :  altar, 
throne,  consols ! 

At  half-past  three,  just  the  hour  at  which  the  Bourse 
is  in  full  blast  of  reports,  monthly  settlements,  premi- 
ums, etc.,  Fouguereau  entered  the  study,  quite  radiant 
with  his  news. 

'^  Monsieur,  an  old  woman  has  come,  but  very  cau- 
tiously ;  I  think  she  's  a  sly  one.  She  asked  for  mon- 
sieur, and  seemed  much  annoj'ed  when  I  told  her  he 
was  out ;  then  she  gave  me  a  letter  for  madame,  and 
here  it  is." 

Fevered  with  anxiet}^  Jules  opened  the  letter ;  then 
he  dropped  into  a  chair  exhausted.  The  letter  was 
mere  nonsense  throughout,  and  needed  a  ke}'.  It  was 
virtually  in  cipher. 

''  Go  away,  Fouguereau."  The  porter  left  him. 
"  It  is  a  mystery  deeper  than  the  sea  below  the 
plummet  line  !  Ah  !  it  must  be  love  ;  love  only  is  so 
sagacious,  so  inventive  as  this.     Ah  !  I  shall  kill  her." 


116  Ferragus. 

At  this  moment  an  idea  flashed  through  his  brain 
with  such  force  that  he  felt  almost  physically  illumin- 
ated by  it.  In  the  days  of  his  toilsome  poverty  before 
his  marriage,  Jules  had  made  for  himself  a  true  friend. 
The  extreme  delicac}^  with  which  he  had  managed  the 
susceptibilities  of  a  man  both  poor  and  modest ;  the 
respect  with  which  he  had  surrounded  him ;  the  ingen- 
ious cleverness  he  had  employed  to  nobly  compel 
him  to  share  his  opulence  without  permitting  it  to 
make  him  blush,  increased  their  friendship.  Jacquet 
continued  faithful  to  Desmarets  in  spite  of  his 
wealth. 

Jacquet,  a  nobl}'  upright  man,  a  toiler,  austere  in 
his  morals,  had  slowly  made  his  way  in  that  particu- 
lar ministry  which  develops  both  honesty  and  knavery 
at  the  same  time.  A  clerk  in  the  ministry  of  P'oreign 
Affairs,  he  had  charge  of  the  most  delicate  division  of 
its  archives.  Jacquet  in  that  office  was  like  a  glow- 
worm, casting  his  light  upon  those  secret  correspond- 
ences, deciphering  and  classifying  despatches.  Rank- 
ing higher  than  a  mere  bourgeois,  his  position  at  the 
ministry  was  superior  to  that  of  the  other  subal- 
terns.  lie  lived  obscurely,  glad  to  feel  that  such 
obscurity  sheltered  him  from  reverses  and  disappoint- 
ments, and  was  satisfied  to  humbl}"  pay  in  the  lowest 
coin  his  debt  to  the  countr\^  Thanks  to  Jules,  his 
position  had  been  much  ameliorated  by  a  worth}'  mar- 


Ferragus.  117 

riage.  An  unrecognized  patriot,  a  minister  in  actual 
fact,  he  contented  himself  with  groaning  in  his  chimne3'- 
corner  at  the  course  of  the  government.  In  his  own 
home,  Jacquet  was  an  easj'-going  king,  —  an  umbrella- 
man,  as  the}"  say,  who  hired  a  carriage  for  his  wife 
which  he  never  entered  himself.  In  short,  to  end  this 
sketch  of  a  philosopher  unknown  to  himself,  he  had 
never  suspected  and  never  in  all  his  life  would  suspect 
the  advantages  he  might  have  drawn  from  his  position, 
—  that  of  having  for  his  intimate  friend  a  broker,  and 
of  knowing  every  morning  all  the  secrets  of  the  State. 
This  man,  sublime  after  the  manner  of  that  nameless 
soldier  who  died  in  saving  Napoleon  b^^  a  "qui  vive," 
lived  at  the  ministry. 

In  ten  minutes  Jules  was  in  his  friend's  office. 
Jacquet  gave  him  a  chair,  laid  aside  methodicalh'  his 
green  silk  eye-shade,  rubbed  his  hands,  picked  up  his 
snuff-box,  rose,  stretched  himself  till  his  shoulder-blades 
cracked,  swelled  out  his  chest,  and  said  :  — 

*'  What  brings  you  here,  Monsieur  Desmarets? 
What  do  you  want  with  me?" 

"Jacquet,  I  want  you  to  decipher  a  secret,  —  a 
secret  of  life  and  death." 

"It  doesn't  concern  politics?" 

"  If  it  did,  I  should  n't  come  to  3'ou  for  information," 
said  Jules.  "  No,  it  is  a  famih'  matter,  about  which  I 
require  you  to  be  absolutely  silent." 


118  Ferragus. 

*'  Claude- Joseph  Jacquet,  dumb  by  profession. 
Don't  you  know  me  by  this  time  ?  "  he  said,  laughing. 
"  Discretion  is  my  lot." 

Jules  showed  him  the  letter. 

*'  You  must  read  me  this  letter,  addressed  to  m}' 
wife.'' 

''The  deuce!  the  deuce!  a  bad  business!"  said 
Jacquet,  examining  the  letter  as  a  usurer  examines  a 
note  to  be  negotiated.  "  Ha  !  that 's  a  gridiron  letter  ! 
Wait  a  minute." 

He  left  Jules  alone  for  a  moment,  but  returned  im- 
mediatel}'. 

"  Easy  enough  to  read,  m}^  friend  !  It  is  written  on 
the  gridiron  plan,  used  b}-  the  Portuguese  minister  un- 
der Monsieur  de  Choiseul,  at  the  time  of  the  dismissal 
of  the  Jesuits.     Here,   see  !  " 

Jacquet  placed  upon  the  writing  a  piece  of  paper 

cut  out  in  regular  squares,  like  the  paper  laces  which 

confectioners  wrap  round  their  sugarplums  ;   and  Jules 

then  read  with  perfect  ease  the  words  that  were  visible 

in  the  interstices.     The}"  were  as  follows :  — 

"  Don't  be  uneasy,  my  dear  Clemence  ;  our  happiness  can- 
not again  be  troubled ;  and  your  husband  will  soon  lay 
aside  his  suspicions.  However  ill  you  may  be,  you  must 
have  the  courage  to  come  here  to-morrow;  find  strength 
in  your  love  for  me.  Mine  for  you  has  induced  me  to  sub- 
mit to  a  cruel  operation,  and  I  cannot  leave  my  bed.  I  have 
had  the  actual  cautery  applied  to  my  back,  and  it  was  neces- 


Ferragus.  119 

sary  to  burn  it  in  a  long  time ;   you  understand  me  ?    But 
I  thought  of  you,  and  I  did  not  suffer. 

"  To  baffle  Maulincour  (who  will  not  persecute  us  much 
longer),  I  have  left  the  protecting  roof  of  the  embassy, 
and  am  now  safe  from  all  inquiry  in  the  rue  des  Enf ants- 
Rouges,  number  12,  with  an  old  woman,  Madame  Etienne 
Gruget,  mother  of  that  Ida,  who  shall  pay  dear  for  her 
folly.  Come  to-morrow,  at  nine  in  the  morning.  I  am  in 
a  room  which  is  reached  only  by  an  interior  staircase.  Ask 
for  Monsieur  Canmset.  Adieu ;  I  kiss  your  forehead,  my 
darling." 

Jacquet  looked  at  Jules  with  a  sort  of  honest  terror, 
the  sign  of  a  true  compassion,  as  he  made  his  favorite 
exclamation  in  two  separate  and  distinct  tones, — 

"  The  deuce  !  the  deuce  !  " 

'•That  seems  clear  to  3'OUj  doesn't  it?"  said  Jules. 
*'  Well,  in  the  depths  of  m}'  heart  there  is  a  voice  that 
pleads  for  my  wife,  and  makes  itself  heard  above  the 
pangs  of  jealousy.  I  must  endure  the  worst  of  all 
agony  until  to-morrow  ;  but  to-morrow,  between  nine 
and  ten  I  shall  know  all ;  I  shall  be  happy  or  wretched 
for  all  my  life.     Think  of  me  then,  Jacquet." 

"I  shall  be  at  3'our  house  to-morrow  at  eight  o'clock. 
We  will  go  together ;  I  '11  wait  for  3'ou,  if  3'ou  like,  in 
the  street.  You  ma}'  run  some  danger,  and  3'OU  ought 
to  have  near  you  some  devoted  person  who  'H  under- 
stand a  mere  sign,  and  whom  you  can  safely  trust. 
Count  on  me." 


120  Ferragus. 

"  Even  to  help  me  in  killing  some  one?" 

"The  deuce!  the  deuce!"  said  Jacquet,  repeating, 
as  it  were,  the  same'  musical  note.  "  I  have  two 
children  and  a  wife." 

Jules  pressed  his  friend's  hand  and  went  away ;  but 
returned  immediatel}'. 

"  I  forgot  the  letter,"  he  said.  "  But  that 's  not  all, 
I  must  reseal  it." 

"  The  deuce  !  the  deuce  !  3'ou  opened  it  without  sav- 
ing the  seal ;  however,  it  is  still  possible  to  restore  it. 
Leave  it  with  me  and  I  '11  bring  it  to  3'ou  secundum 
scripturam.''^ 

"At  what  time? 

"Half-past  five." 

"If  I  am  not  yet  in,  give  it  to  the  porter  and  tell 
him  to  send  it  up  to  madame." 

"  Do  3'OU  want  me  to-morrow?" 

"No.     Adieu." 

Jules  drove  at  once  to  the  place  de  la  Rotonde  du 
Temple,  where  he  left  his  cabriolet  and  went  on  foot  to 
the  rue  des  Enfants-Rouges.  He  found  the -house  of 
Madame  Etienne  Gruget  and  examined  it.  There,  the 
mystery  on  which  depended  the  fate  of  so  man3'  per- 
sons would  be  cleared  up  ;  there,  at  this  moment,  was 
Ferragus,  and  to  Ferragus  all  the  threads  of  this 
strange  plot  led.  The  Gordian  knot  of  the  drama, 
already  so  blood3%   was  surely  in    a   meeting  between 


Ferragus.  121 

Madame  Jules,  her  husband,  and  that  man ;  and  a 
blade  able  to  cut  the  closest  of  such  knots  would  not 
be  wanting. 

The  house  was  one  of  those  which  belong  to  the 
class  called  cahajoutis.  This  significant  name  is  given 
by  the  populace  of  Paris  to  houses  which  are  built,  as 
it  were,  piecemeal.  They  are  nearl}'  always  composed 
of  buildings  originally'  separate  but  afterwards  united 
according  to  the  fanc}'  of  the  various  proprietors  who 
successively'  enlarge  them ;  or  else  the}'  are  houses 
begun,  left  unfinished,  again  built  upon,  and  com- 
pleted, —  unfortunate  structures  which  have  passed,  like 
certain  peoples,  under  manj'  d^'nasties  of  capricious 
masters.  Neither  the  floors  nor  the  windows  have 
an  ensemble^  —  to  borrow  one  of  the  most  picturesque 
terms  of  the  art  of  painting ;  all  is  discord,  even  the 
external  decoration.  The  cahajoutis  is  to  Parisian 
architecture  what  the  capharnaum  is  to  the  apartment, 
—  a  poke-hole,  where  the  most  heterogeneous  articles  are 
flung  pell-mell. 

"  Madame  Etienne?"  asked  Jules  of  the  portress. 

This  portress  had  her  lodge  under  the  main  entrance, 
in  a  sort  of  chicken  coop,  or  wooden  house  on  rollers, 
not  unlike  those  sentry-boxes  wliich  the  police  have 
lately-  set  up  by  the  stands  of  hackney-coaches. 

"  Hein?"  said  the  portress,  without  laying  down  the 
stocking  she  was  knitting. 


122  Ferragus. 

In  Paris  the  various  component  parts  which  make  up 
the  physiognoni}'  of  any  given  portion  of  the  monstrous 
city,  are  admirably  in  keeping  with  its  general  char- 
acter. Thus  porter,  concierge,  or  Suisse,  whichever 
name  ma}'  be  given  to  that  essential  muscle  of  the 
Parisian  monster,  is  alwa3's  in  conformity  with  the 
neighborhood  of  which  he  is  a  part ;  in  fact,  he  is 
often  an  epitome  of  it.  The  laz\'  porter  of  the 
faubourg  Saint-Germain,  with  lace  on  every  seam  of 
bis  coat,  dabbles  in  stocks  ;  he  of  the  Chaussee  d'Antin 
takes  his  ease,  reads  the  money-articles  in  the  news- 
papers, and  has  a  business  of  his  own  in  the  faubourg 
Montmartre.  The  portress  in  the  quarter  of  prostitu- 
tion was  formed}'  a  prostitute  ;  in  the  Marais,  she  has 
morals,  is  cross-grained,  and  full  of  crotchets. 

On  seeing  Monsieur  Jules  this  particular  portress, 
holding  her  knitting  in  one  hand,  took  a  knife  and 
stirred  the  lialf-extinguished  peat  in  her  foot-warmer ; 
then  she  said  :  — 

"You  want  Madame  Etienne  ;  do  3'ou  mean  Madame 
Etienne  Gruget?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Jules,  assuming  a  vexed  air. 

"  Who  makes  trimmings?  " 

"Yes." 

"Well,  then,  monsieur,"  she  said,  issuing  from  her 
cage,  and  laying  her  hand  on  Jules*  arm  and  leading 
him  to  the  end  of  a  long  passage-waj',  vaulted  like  a 


Ferragus.  123 

cellar,  "go  up  the  second  staircase  at  tlie  end  of  the 
court-yard  —  where  you  see  the  windows  with  the  pots 
of  pinks  ;  that 's  where  Madame  Etienne  lives." 

"Thank  you,  madaine.     Do  you  think  she  is  alone?" 
'"  Wh}'  should  n't  she  be  alone?  she  's  a  widow." 
Jules   hastened    up   a   dark   stairway,   the   steps  of 
which   were   knobby  with   hardened  mud  left  by  the 
feet  of  those  who  came  and  went.     On  the  second  floor 
he  saw  three  doors  but  no  signs  of  pinks.     Fortunately, 
on  one  of  the  doors,  the  oiliest  and  darkest  of  the  three, 
he  read  these  words,  chalked  on  a  panel :    "  Ida  will 
come  to-night  at  nine  o'clock." 
*'  This  is  the  place,"  thought  Jules. 
He  pulled  an  old  bellrope,  black  with  age,  and  heard 
the  smothered  sound  of  a  cracked  bell  and  the  barking 
of  an  asthmatic  little  dog.     By  the  way  the  sounds 
echoed  from  the  interior  he  knew  that  the  rooms  were 
encumbered  with  articles  which  left  no  space  for  rever- 
beration,—  a   characteristic   feature  of  the   homes   of 
workmen  and  humble  households,  where  space  and  air 
are  alwaj's  lacking. 

Jules  looked  about  mechanicallj-  for  the  pinks,  and 
found  them  on  the  outer  sill  of  a  sash  window  between 
two  filthy  drain-pipes.  So  here  w^ere  flowers ;  here,  a 
gai'den,  two  3'ards  long  and  six  inches  wide ;  here,  a 
wheat-ear ;  here,  a  whole  life  epitomized ;  but  here, 
too,  all  the  miseries  of  that  life.     A  ray  of  liglit  fall- 


1 24  Ferragus. 

ing  from  heaven  as  if  by  special  favor  on  tliose  puny 
flowers  and  the  vigorous  wheat-ear  brought  out  in  full 
relief  the  dust,  the  grease,  and  that  nameless  color, 
peculiar  to  Parisian  squalor,  made  of  dirt,  which 
crusted  and  spotted  the  damp  walls,  the  worm-eaten 
balusters,  the  disjointed  window-casings,  and  the  door 
originally  red.  Presentl}'  the  cough  of  an  old  woman, 
and  a  heavy  female  step,  shuffling  painfull}"  in  list  slip- 
pers, announced  the  coming  of  the  mother  of  Ida 
Gruget.  The  creature  opened  the  door  and  came  out 
upon  the  landing,  looked  up,  and  said :  — 

"•Ah!  is  this  Monsieur  Bocquillon  ?  Wh}',  no?  But 
perhaps  you  're  his  brother.  What  can  I  do  for  you  ? 
Come  in,  monsieur." 

Jules  followed  her  into  the  first  room,  where  he  saw, 
huddled  together,  cages,  household  utensils,  ovens,  fur- 
niture, little  earthenware  dishes  full  of  food  or  water 
for  the  dog  and  the  cats,  a  wooden  clock,  bed-quilts, 
engravings  of  Eisen,  heaps  of  old  iron,  all  these  things 
mingled  and  massed  together  in  a  way  that  produced 
a  most  grotesque  effect,  —  a  true  Parisian  dusthole, 
in  which  were  not  lacking  a  few  old  numbers  of  the 
^'  Constitutionel." 

Jules,  impelled  b}^  a  sense  of  prudence,  paid  no  at- 
tention to  the  widow's  invitation  when  she  said  civ- 
illy, showing  him  an  inner  room  :  — 

"  Come  in  here,  monsieur,   and  warm  3'ourself.'* 


Ferragus.  125 

Fearing  to  be  overheard  by  Ferragns,  Jules  asked 
himself  whether  it  were  not  wisest  to  conclude  the 
arrangement  he  had  come  to  make  with  the  old  woman 
in  the  crowded  antechamber.  A  hen,  which  descended 
cackling  from  a  loft,  roused  him  from  this  inward  med- 
itation. He  came  to  a  resolution,  and  followed  Ida's 
mother  into  the  inner  room,  whither  the}'  were  accom- 
panied b}''  the  wheez}^  pug,  a  personage  otherwise  raute, 
who  jumped  upon  a  stool.  Madame  Gruget  showed 
the  assumption  of  semi-pauperism  when  she  invited  her 
visitor  to  warm  himself.  Her  fire-pot  contained,  or 
rather  concealed  two  bits  of  sticks,  which  la}^  apart : 
the  grating  was  on  the  ground,  its  handle  in  the  ashes. 
The  mantel-shelf,  adorned  with  a  little  wax  Jesus 
under  a  shade  of  squares  of  glass  held  together  with 
blue  paper,  was  piled  with  wools,  bobbins,  and  tools 
used  in  the  making  of  gimps  and  trimmings.  Jules 
examined  everything  in  the  room  with  a  curiosity  that 
was  full  of  interest,  and  showed,  in  spite  of  himself, 
an  inward  satisfaction. 

''  Well,  monsieur,  tell  me,  do  you  want  to  bu}'  any 
of  my  things  ?  "  said  the  old  woman,  seating  herself  in  a 
cane  arm-chair,  which  appeared  to  be  her  headquarters. 
In  it  she  kept  her  handkerchief,  snuffbox,  knitting, 
half-peeled  vegetables,  spectacles,  calendar,  a  bit  of 
liverj''  gold  lace  just  begun,  a  greasy  pack  of  cards, 
and  two  volumes  of  novels,  all  stuck  into  the  hollow 


126  Ferragus. 

of  the  back.  This  article  of  furniture,  in  which  the 
old  creature  was  floating  clown  the  river  of  life,  was 
not  unlike  the  enc^'clopedic  bag  which  a  woman  carries 
with  her  when  she  travels ;  in  which  may  be  found  a 
compendium  of  her  household  belongings,  from  the  por- 
trait of  her  husband  to  eau  de  Melisse  for  faintness, 
sugarplums  for  the  children,  and  English  court-plaster 
in  case  of  cuts. 

Jules  studied  all.  He  looked  attentivel}'  at  Madame 
Gruget's  yellow  visage,  at  her  gray  eyes  without  either 
brows  or  lashes,  her  toothless  mouth,  her  wrinkles 
marked  in  black,  her  rust}'  cap,  her  still  more  rusty 
ruffles,  her  cotton  petticoat  full  of  holes,  her  worn-out 
sHppers,  her  disabled  fire-pot,  her  table  heaped  with 
dishes  and  silks  and  work  begun  or  finished,  in  wool 
or  cotton,  in  the  midst  of  which  stood  a  bottle  of 
wine.  Then  he  said  to  himself:  "This  old  woman  has 
some  passion,  some  strong  liking  or  vice  ;  I  can  make 
her  do  my  will." 

"Madame,"  he  said  aloud,  with  a  private  sign  of 
intelligence,  "  T  have  come  to  order  some  livery  trim- 
mings." Then  he  lowered  his  voice.  "  I  know,"  he 
continued,  "  that  3'ou  have  a  lodger  who  has  taken  the 
name  of  Camuset."  The  old  woman  looked  at  him  sud- 
denly, but  without  any  sign  of  astonishment.  "  Now, 
tell  me,  can  we  come  to  an  understanding?  This  is 
a  question  which  means  fortune  for  you." 


Ferragus.  127 

"  Monsieur,"  she  replied,  "  speak  out,  and  don't  be 
afraid.  There 's  no  one  here.  But  if  I  had  anj^  one 
above,  it  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  hear  3'ou." 

"  Ha  !  the  sly  old  creature,  she  answers  like  a  Nor- 
man," thought  Jules,  "We  shall  agree.  Do  not  give 
yourself  the  trouble  to  tell  falsehoods,  madame,"  he 
resumed,  ''  In  the  first  place,  let  me  tell  you  that  I 
mean  no  harm  either  to  3'ou  or  to  your  lodger  who 
is  suffering  from  cauter}',  or  to  your  daughter  Ida,  a 
stay-maker,  the  friend  of  Ferragus.  You  see,  I  know 
all  your  affairs.  Do  not  be  uneasy  ;  I  am  not  a  detec- 
tive policeman,  nor  do  I  desire  an3'thing  that  can  hurt 
your  conscience.  A  young  lady  will  come  here  to- 
morrow-morning at  half-past  nine  o'clock,  to  talk  with 
this  lover  of  your  daughter.  I  want  to  be  where  I  can 
see  all  and  hear  all,  without  being  seen  or  heard  b}' 
them.  If  you  will  furnish  me  the  means  of  doing  so, 
I  will  reward  that  service  with  the  gift  of  two  thou- 
sand francs  and  a  yearly  stipend  of  six  hundred.  My 
notary  shall  prepare  a  deed  before  you  this  evening, 
and  I  will  give  him  the  money  to  hold ;  he  will  pay 
the  two  thousand  to  you  to-morrow  after  the  confer- 
ence at  which  I  desire  to  be  present,  as  3^ou  will  then 
have  given  proofs  of  your  good  faith." 

"Will  it  injure  my  daughter,  m}'  good  monsieur?" 
she  asked,  casting  a  cat-like  glance  of  doubt  and  unea- 
siness upon  him. 


128  Ferragus. 

"  In  no  wa}',  madarae.  But,  in  any  case,  it  seems 
to  me  that  your  daughter  does  not  treat  you  well.  A 
girl  who  is  loved  by  so  rich  a  man  as  Ferragus  ought 
to  make  you  more  comfortable  than  you  seem  to  be." 

"  Ah,  my  dear  monsieur,  just  think,  not  so  much  as 
one  poor  ticket  to  the  Ambigu,  or  the  Gaiete,  where 
she  can  go  as  much  as  she  likes.  It 's  shameful !  A 
girl  for  whom  I  sold  my  silver  forks  and  spoons !  and 
now  I  eat,  at  my  age,  with  German  metal,  —  and  all 
to  pa}^  for  her  apprenticeship,  and  give  her  a  trade, 
where  she  could  coin  money  if  she  chose.  As  for 
that,  she  's  like  me,  clever  as  a  witch ;  I  must  do  her 
that  justice.  But,  I  will  say,  she  might  give  me  her 
old  silk  gowns, — I,  who  am  so  fond  of  wearing  silk. 
But  no  !  Monsieur,  she  dines  at  the  Cadran-Bleu  at 
fift}^  francs  a  head,  and  rolls  in  her  carriage  as  if  she 
were  a  princess,  and  despises  her  mother  for  a  Colin- 
Larapon.  Heavens  and  earth !  what  heedless  3'oung 
ones  we  've  brought  into  the  world  ;  we  have  nothing 
to  boast  of  there.  A  mother,  monsieur,  can't  be  an}- 
thing  else  but  a  good  mother  ;  and  I  've  concealed  that 
girl's  wa3"S,  and  kept  her  in  ni}'  bosom,  to  take  the 
bread  out  of  my  mouth  and  cram  ever3'thing  into  her 
own.  Well,  well !  and  now  she  comes  and  fondles  one 
a  little,  and  says,  '  How  d'ye  do,  mother?'  And  that's 
all  the  duty  she  thinks  of  paying.  But  she  '11  have  chil- 
dren one  of  these  da3's,  and  then  she  '11  find  out  what 


Ferragus.  129 

it  is  to  have  such  baggage,  —  which  one  can't  help 
loving  all  the  same." 

''  Do  3'ou  mean  that  she  does  nothing  for  3'ou?  " 

"Ah,  nothing?  No,  monsieur,  I  didn't  say  that; 
if  she  did  nothing,  that  would  be  a  little  too  much. 
She  gives  me  m}'  rent  and  thirtj'-six  francs  a  month. 
But,  monsieur,  at  mv  age,  —  and  I  'm  fifty -two  3'ears 
old,  with  eyes  that  feel  the  strain  at  night,  —  ought  I 
to  be  working  in  this  wa}-?  Besides,  wh}'  won't  she 
have  me  to  live  with  her?  I  should  shame  her,  should 
T?  Then  let  her  saj'  so.  Faith,  one  ought  to  be 
buried  out  of  the  wa}-  of  such  dogs  of  children,  who 
forget  you  before  the}-  've  even  shut  the  door." 

She  pulled  her  handkerchief  from  her  pocket,  and 
with  it  a  lotter}'  ticket  that  dropped  on  the  floor ;  but 
she  hastil}'  picked  it  up,  sa3'ing,  "Hi!  that's  the 
receipt  for  my  taxes." 

Jules  at  once  perceived  the  reason  of  the  sagacious 
parsimony  of  which  the  mother  complained  ;  and  he 
was  the  more  certain  that  the  widow  Gruget  would 
agree  to  the  proposed  bargain. 

"  Well,  then,  madame,"  he  said,  "  accept  what  T  offer 
you." 

"  Did  you  say  two  thousand  francs  in  ready  mone}^ 
and  six  hundred  annuit}",  monsieur?  " 

"Madame,  I 'a'c  changed  my  mind;  I  will  promise 
3-ou   onh'    three    hundred    annuit}'.      This    wa^'    seems 

9 


130  Ferragus. 

more  to  m}'  own  interests.  But  I  will  give  3'ou  five 
thousand  francs  in  ready  money.  Would  n't  you  like 
that  as  well  ?  " 

"  Bless  me,  3'es,  monsieur  !  " 

"You'll  get  more  comfort  out  of  it ;  and  3'ou  can 
go  to  the  Ambigu  and  Franconi's  at  your  ease  in  a 
coach." 

"As  for  Franconi,  I  don't  like  that,  for  the}'  don't 
talk  there.  Monsieur,  if  I  accept,  it  is  because  it  will 
be  very  advantageous  for  my  child.  I  sha  n't  be  a  drag 
on  her  any  longer.  Poor  little  thing  !  I  'm  glad  she  has 
her  pleasures,  after  all.  Ah,  monsieur,  3'outh  must  be 
amused !  And  so,  if  you  assure  me  that  no  harm  will 
come  to  anj-body  —  " 

"  Not  to  anybody,"  repeated  Jules.  "  But  now,  how 
will  3'ou  manage  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  monsieur,  if  I  give  Monsieur  Ferragus  a 
little  tea  made  of  popp3"-heads  to-night,  he  '11  sleep 
sound,  the  dear  man ;  and  he  needs  it,  too,  because  of 
his  sufferings,  for  he  does  suffer,  I  can  tell  3'ou,  and 
more  's  the  pit3'.  But  I  'd  like  to  know  what  a  healthy 
man  like  him  wants  to  burn  his  back  for,  just  to  get 
rid  of  a  tic  douleureux  which  troubles  him  once  in  two 
3^ears.  However,  to  come  back  to  our  business.  I 
have  my  neighbor's  key ;  her  lodging  is  just  above 
mine,  and  in  it  there  's  a  room  adjoining  the  one  where 
M6nsieur  Ferragus  is,   with  onl3'  a  partition   between 


Ftrragns.  131 

them.  My  neighbor  is  away  in  the  conntrj'  for  ten 
daj's.  '  Therefore,  if  I  make  a  hole  to-night  while  Mon- 
sieur Ferragus  is  sound  asleep,  j'ou  can  see  and  hear 
them  to-morrow  at  your  ease.  I  'm  on  good  terms 
with  a  locksmith,  —  a  ver}'  friendly-  man,  who  talks  like 
an  angel,  and  he  '11  do  the  work  for  me  and  say  nothing 
about  it." 

"Then  here's  a  hundred  francs  for  him.  Come  to- 
night to  Monsieur  Desmaret's  office ;  he 's  a  notar}', 
and  here  's  his  address.  At  nine  o'clock  the  deed  will 
be  read}',  but  —  silence  !  " 

"Enough,  monsieur;  as  you  say — silence!  Au 
revoir,  monsieur." 

Jules  went  home,  almost  calmed  b}'  the  certaint}^ 
that  he  should  know  the  truth  on  the  morrow.  As  he 
entered  the  house,  the  porter  gave  him  the  letter 
properly  resealed. 

"How  do  3'ou  feel  now?"  he  said  to  his  wife,  in 
spite  of  the  coldness  that  separated  them. 

"  Prett}'  well,  Jules,"  she  answered  in  a  coaxing 
voice,  "do  come  and  dine  beside  me." 

"  Ver}^  good,"  he  said,  giving  her  the  letter.  "Here 
is  something  Fouguereau  gave  me  for  3'ou." 

Clemence,  who  was  very  pale,  colored  high  when  she 
saw  the  letter,  and  that  sudden  redness  was  a  fresh 
blow  to  her  husband. 

"Is  that  jo}',"  he  said,  laughing,  "or  the  effect  of 
expectation  ?  " 


132  Ferragus. 

"Oh,  of  many  things!"  she  said,  examining  the 
the  seal. 

"  I  leave  you  now  for  a  few  moments." 

He  went  down  to  his  stud}',  and  wrote  to  his  brother, 
giving  him  directions  about  the  payment  to  the  widow 
Gruget.  When  he  returned,  he  found  his  dinner  served 
on  a  little  table  by  his  wife's  bedside,  and  Josephine 
ready  to  wait  on  him. 

"If  I  were  up  how  I  should  like  to  serve  3'ou  m}"- 
self,"  said  Clemence,  when  Josephine  had  left  them. 
"Oh,  3'es,  on  my  knees!"  she  added,  passing  her 
white  hands  through  her  husband's  hair.  "  Dear, 
noble  heart,  yo\x  were  very  kind  and  gracious  to  me 
just  now.  You  did  me  more  good  b}"  showing  me 
such  confidence  than  all  the  doctors  on  earth  could  do 
me  with  their  prescriptions.  That  feminine  delicac}'  of 
3'ours  —  for  you  do  know  how  to  love  like  a  woman  — 
well,  it  has  shed  a  balm  into  my  heart  which  has  almost 
cured  me.  There  's  truce  between  us,  Jules ;  lower 
3-our  head,  that  I  ma}'  kiss  it." 

Jules  could  not  deny  himself  the  pleasure  of  that 
embrace.  But  it  was  not  without  a  feeling  of  remorse 
in  his  heart ;  he  felt  himself  small  before  this  woman 
whom  he  was  still  tempted  to  think  innocent.  A  sort 
of  melancholy  J03'  possessed  him.  A  tender  hope  shone 
On  her  features  in  spite  of  their  grieved  expression. 
The3^  both  were   equall3'   unhappy   in  deceiving   each 


Fer  vagus.  133 

other ;  another  caress,  and,  unable  to  resist  their 
suffering,  all  would  then  have  been  avowed. 

"To-morrow  evening,  Clemence." 

"No,  no;  to-morrow  morning,  by  twelve  o'clock, 
you  will  know  all,  and  j'ou  '11  kneel  down  before  your 
wife  —  Oh,  no  !  you  shall  not  be  humiliated  ;  you  are 
all  forgiven  now ;  you  have  done  no  wrong.  Listen, 
Jules  ;  yesterday  you  did  crush  me  —  harshly ;  but 
perhaps  my  life  would  not  have  been  complete  with- 
out that  agony ;  it  ma}'  be  a  shadow  that  will  make 
our  coming  daj's  celestial." 

"You  la}^  a  spell  upon  me,"  cried  Jules;  "you  fill 
me  with  remorse." 

' '  Poor  love  !  destin}'  is  stronger  than  we,  and  I  am 
not  the  accomplice  of  mine.     I  shall  go  out  to-morrow." 

"  At  what  hour?"  asked  Jules. 

"  At  half-past  nine." 

"Clemence,"  he  said,  "take  every  precaution;  con- 
sult Doctor  Desplein  and  old  Haudry." 

"I  shall  consult  nothing  but  my  heart  and  my 
courage." 

"I  shall  leave  yo\x  free;  you  will  not  see  me  till 
twelve  o'clock." 

"  Won't  you  keep  me  company  this  evening?  I  feel 
so  much  better." 

After  attending  to  some  business,  Jules  returned  to 
his  wife,  —  recalled  by  her  invincible  attraction.  His 
passion  was  stronger  than  his  anguish. 


134  Ferragus. 

The  next  day,  at  nine  o'clock  Jules  left  home,  hur- 
ried to  the  rue  des  Enfants-Rouges,  went  upstairs,  and 
rang  the  bell  of  the  widow  Gruget's  lodgings. 

"  Ah  !  you  've  kept  30ur  word,  as  true  as  the  dawn. 
Come  in,  monsieur,"  said  the  old  woman  when  she  saw 
him.  ''I've  made  you  a  cup  of  coffee  with  cream," 
she  added,  when  the  door  was  closed.  "  Oh !  real 
cream  ;  I  saw  it  milked  myself  at  the  dair}'  we  have 
in  this  very  street." 

"Thank  3'ou,  no,  madame,  nothing.  Take  me  at 
once  —  " 

"  Ver}"  good,  monsieur.     Follow  me,  this  wa}'." 

She  led  him  up  into  the  room  above  her  own,  where 
she  showed  him,  triumphantly,  an  opening  about  the 
size  of  a  two-franc  piece,  made  during  the  night,  in  a 
place,  which,  in  each  room,  was  above  a  wardrobe.  In 
order  to  look  through  it,  Jules  was  forced  to  maintain 
himself  in  a  rather  fatiguing  attitude,  by  standing  on  a 
step-ladder  which  the  widow  had  been  careful  to  place 
there. 

"  There  's  a  gentleman  with  him,"  she  whispered,  as 
she  retired. 

Jules  then  beheld  a  man  emplo3'ed  in  dressing  a 
number  of  wounds  on  the  shoulders  of  Ferragus,  whose 
head  he  recognized  from  the  description  given  to  him 
by  Monsieur  de  Maulincour. 

"  When  do  you  think  those  wounds  will  heal?  "  asked 
Ferragus. 


Ferragus.  135 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  other  man.  "The  doctors 
sa}'  those  wounds  will  require  seven  or  eight  more 
dressings." 

"  Well,  then,  good-b^'e  until  to-night,"  said  Ferragus, 
holding  out  his  hand  to  the  man,  who  had  just  replaced 
the  bandage. 

"Yes,  to-night,"  said  the  other,  pressing  his  hand  cor- 
dially.    "  I  wish  I  could  see  3'ou  past  your  sufferings." 

'^  To-morrow  Monsieur  de  Funcal's  papers  will  be 
delivered  to  us,  and  Henri  Bourignard  will  be  dead 
forever,"  said  Ferragus.  "Those  fatal  marks  which 
have  cost  us  so  dear  no  longer  exist.  I  shall  become 
once  more  a  social  being,  a  man  among  men,  and  more 
of  a  man  than  the  sailor  whom  the  fishes  are  eating. 
God  knows  it  is  not  for  m}"  own  sake  I  have  made 
myself  a  Portuguese  count !  " 

"Poor  Gratien  ! — you,  the  wisest  of  ns  all,  our  be- 
loved brother,  the  Benjamin  of  the  band ;  as  you  very 
well  know." 

"  Adieu  ;  keep  an  e3'e  on  Maulincour." 

"  You  can  rest  easy  on  that  score." 

"  Ho  !   sta3%  marquis,"  cried  the  convict. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Ida  is  capable  of  everything  after  the  scene  of  last 
night.  If  she  should  throw  herself  into  the  river,  I 
would  not  fish  her  out.  She  knows  the  secret  of  my 
name,  and  she'll  keep  it  better  there.  But  still,  look 
after  her ;  for  she  is,  in  her  wa}^  a  good  girl." 


136  Ferragus, 

"  Very  well." 

The  stranger  departed.  Ten  minutes  later  Jules 
heard,  with  a  feverish  shudder,  the  rustle  of  a  silk 
gown,  and  almost  recognized  by  their  sound  the  steps 
of  his  wife. 

"  Well,  father,"  said  Clemence,  "  my  poor  father, 
are  you  better?     What  courage  3'ou  have  shown!" 

"''  Come  here,  my  child,"  replied  Ferragus,  holding 
out  his  hand  to  her. 

Clemence  held  her  forehead  to  him  and  he  kissed  it. 

"  Now  tell  me,  what  is  the  matter,  m}-  little  girl? 
What  are  these  new  troubles  ?  " 

"Troubles,  father!  it  concerns  the  life  or  death  of 
the  daughter  you  have  loved  so  much.  Indeed  3'OU 
must,  as  I  wrote  you  yesterda}',  you  must  find  a  way 
to  see  m}''  poor  Jules  to-day.  If  you  knew  how  good 
he  has  been  to  me,  in  spite  of  all  suspicions  appar- 
ently so  legitimate.  Father,  xny  love  is  my  very  life. 
Would  you  see  me  die  ?  Ah  !  I  have  suffered  so  much 
that  my  life,  I  feel  it !    is  in  danger." 

"  And  all  because  of  the  curiositj'  of  that  miserable 
Parisian?"  cried  Ferragus.  ''I'd  burn  Paris  down  if 
I  lost  3'OU,  my  daughter.  Ha!  you  ma}'  know  what 
a  lover  is,  but  you  don't  3'et  know  what  a  father  can 
do." 

"  Father,  you  frighten  me  when  you  look  at  me  in 
that  wa}'.     Don't  weigh  such  different  feelings  in  the 


Ferragus.  137 

same  scales.  I  had  a  husband  before  I  knew  that  my 
father  was  Uving  —  " 

"  If  jour  husband  was  the  first  to  lay  kisses  on  your 
forehead,  I  was  the  first  to  drop  tears  upon  it,"  replied 
Ferragus.  "  But  don't  feel  anxious,  Clemence,  speak 
to  me  frankl}'.  I  love  you  enough  to  rejoice  in  the 
knowledge  that  you  are  happ}',  though  I,  your  father, 
may  have  little  place  in  3'our  heart,  while  you  fill  the 
whole  of  mine." 

"Ah!  what  good  such  words  do  me!  You  make 
me  love  you  more  and  more,  though  I  seem  to  rob 
something  from  my  Jules.  But,  ra^^  kind  father,  think 
what  his  sufferings  are.    What  may  I  tell  him  to-day  ?  " 

''My  child,  do  you  think  1  waited  for  your  letter  to 
save  you  from  this  threatened  danger?  Do  you  know 
what  will  become  of  those  who  venture  to  touch  3'our 
happiness,  or  come  between  us?  Have  3'ou  never  been 
aware  that  a  second  providence  was  guarding  your  life  ? 
Twelve  men  of  power  and  intellect  form  a  phalanx 
round  j'our  love  and  your  existence,  —  ready  to  do  all 
things  to  protect  you.  Think  of  your  father,  who  has 
risked  death  to  meet  3'ou  in  the  public  promenades, 
or  see  you  asleep  in  3-our  little  bed  in  your  mother's 
home,  during  the  night-time.  Could  such  a  father,  to 
whom  your  innocent  caresses  gave  strength  to  live 
when  a  man  of  honor  ought  to  have  died  to  escape  his 
mfam}^,  could  /,  in  short,  I  who  breathe  through  your 


138  Ferragus. 

lips,  and  see  with  3'our  eyes,  and  feel  with  your  heart, 
could  I  fail  to  defend  with  the  claws  of  a  lion  and  the 
soul  of  a  father,  my  only  blessing,  my  life,  m}'  daughter? 
Since  the  death  of  that  angel,  your  mother,  I  have 
dreamed  but  of  one  thing,  — the  happiness  of  pressing 
3'ou  to  ra}'  heart  in  the  face  of  the  whole  earth,  of  bur}'- 
ing  the  convict,  —  "  He  paused  a  moment,  and  then 
added  :  "  — of  giving  3'ou  a  father,  a  father  who  could 
press  without  shame  ^-our  husband's  hand,  who  could 
live  without  fear  in  both  your  hearts,  who  could  say  to 
all  the  world,  '  This  is  m}'  daughter,'  —  in  short,  to 
be   a  happy  father." 

''Oh,  father!  father!" 

"  After  infinite  difficult}',  after  searching  the  whole 
globe,"  continued  Ferragus,  "my  friends  have  found 
me  the  skin  of  a  dead  man  in  which  to  take  my  place 
once  more  in  social  life.  A  few  da3's  hence,  I  shall 
be  Monsieur  de  Funcal,  a  Portuguese  count.  Ah  !  my 
dear  child,  there  are  few  men  of  my  age  who  would 
have  had  the  patience  to  learn  Portuguese  and  English, 
which  were  spoken  fluently  by  that  devil  of  a  sailor, 
who  was  drowned  at  sea." 

"But,  m}^  dear  father  — " 

"  All  has  been  foreseen,  and  prepared.  A  few  days 
hence,  his  Majest}'  John  VI.,  King  of  Portugal  will  be 
my  accomplice.  My  child,  3'ou  must  have  a  little  pa- 
tience where  your  father  has  had  so  much.     But  ah ! 


Ferragus.  139 

what  would  I  not  do  to  reward  3'our  devotion  for  the 
last  three  years,  —  coming  religiously  to  comfort  your 
old  father,  at  the  risk  of  your  own  peace  !  " 

"Father!"  cried  Clemence,  taking  his  hands  and 
kissing  them. 

"  Come,  my  child,  have  courage  still;  keep  my  fatal 
secret  a  few  days  longer,  till  the  end  is  reached.  Jules 
is  not  an  ordinary  man,  I  know  ;  but  are  we  sure  that 
his  lofty  character  and  his  noble  love  may  not  impel 
him  to  dislike  the  daughter  of  a  —  " 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Ck'mence,  "you  have  read  my  heart; 
I  have  no  other  fear  than  that.  The  very  thought 
turns  me  to  ice,"  she  added,  in  a  heart-rending  tone. 
"  But,  father,  think  that  I  have  promised  him  the  truth 
in  two  hours." 

"  If  so,  my  daughter,  tell  him  to  go  to  the  Portu- 
guese embassy  and  see  the  Comte  de  Funcal,  your 
father.     I  will  be  there." 

"  But  Monsieur  de  Maulincour  has  told  him  of  Fer- 
ragus. Oh,  father,  what  torture,  to  deceive,  deceive, 
deceive !  " 

"Need  you  say  that  to  me?  But  onl^-  a  few  days 
more,  and  no  living  man  will  be  able  to  expose  me. 
Besides,  Monsieur  de  Maulincour  is  be3ond  the  faculty 
of  remembering.  Come,  drj'  your  tears,  my  sill}'  child, 
and  think  —  " 

At  this  instant  a  terrible  cr^'  rang  from  the  room  in 
which  Jules  Desmarets  was  stationed. 


140  Fer  vagus. 

The  clamor  was  heard  by  Madame  Jules  and  Ferra- 
gus  through  the  opening  of  the  wall,  and  struck  them 
with  terror. 

"  Go  and  see  what  it  means,  Clemence,"  said  her 
father. 

Clemence  ran  rapidly  down  the  little  staircase,  found 
the  door  into  Madame  Gruget's  apartment  wide  open, 
heard  the  cries  which  echoed  from  the  upper  floor, 
went  up  the  stairs,  guided  b}'  the  noise  of  sobs,  and 
caught  these  words  before  she  entered  the  fatal 
chamber :  — 

"  You,  monsieur,  you,  with  3'our  horrid  inventions,  — 
3'ou  are  the  cause  of  her  death  !  " 

••' Hush,  miserable  woman!"  replied  Jules,  putting 
his  handkerchief  on  the  mouth  of  the  old  woman,  who 
began  at  once  to  cry  out,  "  Murder  !  help  !  " 

At  this  instant  Clemence  entered,  saw  her  husband, 
uttered  a  cr}-,  and  fled  awa3\ 

"  Who  will  save  my  child?  "  cried  the  widow  Gruget. 
' '  You  have  murdered  her." 

"How?"  asked  Jules,  mechanically,  for  he  was 
horror-struck  at  being  seen  b}^  his  wife. 

"  Read    that,"    said   the  old   woman,   giving  him  a 
letter.      "  Can    money    or    annuities    console   me   for 
\hat?" 

Farewell,  mother !  I  bequeath  you  what  I  have.  I  beg 
your  pardon  for  my  forlts,  and  the  last  greet'  to  which  I  put 


Ferragus.  141 

you  by  ending  my  life  in  the  river.     Henry,  who  I  love 

more  than  myself,  says  I  have  made  his  misfortuns,  and  as 

he  has  drifen  me  away,  and  I  have  lost  all  my  hops  of  mer- 

rying  him,  I  am  going  to  droun  myself.     I  shall  go  abov 

Neuilly,  so  that  they  can't  put  me  in  the  Morg.     If  Henry 

does  not  hate  me  anny  more  after  I  am  ded,  ask  him  to 

berry  a  pore  girl  whose  hart  beet  for  him  only,  and  to  forgif 

me,  for  I  did  rong  to  medle  in  what  did  n't  consern  me. 

Tak  care  of  his  wounds.    How  much  he  sufered,  pore  fellow ! 

I  shall  have  as  much  corage  to  kill  myself  as  he  had  to  burn 

his  bak.    Carry  home  the  corsets  I  have  finished.     And  pray 

God  for  your  daughter. 

Ida. 

"  Take  this  letter  to  Monsieur  de  Funcal,  who  is 
upstairs,"  said  Jules.  "  He  alone  can  save  your 
daughter,  if  there  is  still  time." 

So  saying  he  disappeared,  running  like  a  man  who 
has  committed  a  crime.  His  legs  trembled.  The  hot 
blood  poured  into  his  swelling  heart  in  torrents  greater 
than  at  an}"  other  moment  of  his  life,  and  left  it  again 
with  untold  violence.  Conflicting  thoughts  struggled 
in  his  mind,  and  yet  one  thought  predominated,  — 
he  had  not  been  loyal  to  the  being  he  loved  most.  It 
was  impossible  for  him  to  argue  with  his  conscience, 
whose  voice,  rising  high  with  conviction,  came  like  an 
echo  of  those  inward  cries  of  his  love  during  the  cruel 
hours  of  doubt  he  had  lately-  lived  through. 

He  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  da}'  wandering 
about  Paris,  for  he  dared  not  go  home.     This  man  of 


142  Ferragiis. 

integrit}'  and  honor  feared  to  meet  the  spotless  brow  of 
the  woman  he  had  misjudged.  We  estimate  wrong- 
doing in  proportion  to  the  puritj'  of  our  conscience ; 
the  deed  which  is  scarceh^  a  fault  to  some  hearts,  takes 
the  proportions  of  a  crime  in  certain  unsuUied  souls. 
The  slightest  stain  on  the  white  garment  of  a  virgin 
makes  it  a  thing  ignoble  as  the  rags  of  a  mendicant. 
Between  the  two  the  difference  lies  in  the  misfortune  of 
the  one,  the  wrong-doing  of  the  other.  God  never 
measures  repentance  ;  he  never  apportions  it.  As  much 
is  needed  to  efface  a  spot  as  to  obliterate  the  crimes  of 
a  lifetime.  These  reflections  fell  with  all  their  weio;ht 
on  Jules ;  passions,  like  human  laws,  will  not  par- 
don, and  their  reasoning  is  more  just ;  for  are  thev  not 
based  upon  a  conscience  of  their  own  as  infallible  as 
an  instinct? 

Jules  finall}^  came  home  pale,  despondent,  crushed 
beneath  a  sense  of  his  wrong-doing,  and  yet  expressing 
in  spite  of  himself  the  jo}'  his  wife's  innocence  had 
given  him.  He  entered  her  room  all  throbbing  with 
emotion ;  she  was  in  bed  with  a  high  fever.  He  took 
her  hand,  kissed  it,  and  covered  it  with  tears. 

''  Dear  angel,"  he  said,  when  they  were  alone,  "  it  is 
repentance." 

"  And  for  what?  "  she  answered. 

As  she  made  that  reply,  she  laid  her  head  back  upon 
the  pillow,  closed  her  eyes,  and  remained  motionless, 


Ferragus.  143 

keeping  the  secret  of  her  sufferings  that  she  might  not 
frighten  iier  husband,  —  the  tenderness  of  a  mother, 
the  delicacy  of  an  angel !  All  the  woman  was  in  her 
answer. 

The  silence  lasted  long.  Jules,  thinking  her  asleep, 
went  to  question  Josephine  as  to  her  mistress's 
condition. 

"  Madame  came  home  half-dead,  monsieur.  We 
sent  at  once  for  Monsieur  Haudrj." 

"  Did  he  come?     What  did  he  say?  " 

"He  said  nothing,  monsieur.  He  did  not  seem 
satisfied ;  gave  orders  that  no  one  should  go  near 
madame  except  the  nurse,  and  said  he  should  come 
back  this  evening." 

Jules  returned  softly  to  his  wife's  room  and  sat 
down  in  a  chair  before  the  bed.  There  he  remained, 
motionless,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  those  of  Clemence. 
When  she  raised  her  eyelids  she  saw  him,  and  through 
those  lids  passed  a  tender  glance,  full  of  passionate 
love,  free  from  reproach  and  bitterness,  —  a  look  which 
fell  like  a  flame  of  fire  upon  the  heart  of  that  husband, 
nobl}'^  absolved  and  forever  loved  by  the  being  whom 
he  had  killed.  The  presentiment  of  death  struck  both 
their  minds  with  equal  force.  Their  looks  were  blended 
in  one  anguish,  as  their  hearts  had  long  been  blended 
in  one  love,  felt  equalh'  by  both,  and  shared  equally. 
No  questions  were   uttered  ;    a  horrible   certainty  was 


144  Ferr  agios. 

there, — in  the  wife  an  absolute  generosity  ;  in  the  hus- 
band an  awful  remorse  ;  then,  in  both  souls  the  same 
vision  of  the  end,  the  same  conviction  of  fatalit3\ 

There  came  a  moment  when,  thinking  his  wife 
asleep,  Jules  kissed  her  softly  on  the  forehead ;  then 
after  long  contemplation  of  that  cherished  face,  he 
said :  — 

"O  God!  leave  me  this  angel  still  a  little  while 
that  I  may  blot  out  my  wrong  b}'  love  and  adoration. 
As  a  daughter,  she  is  sublime  ;  as  a  wife,  what  word 
can  express  her?" 

Clemen ce  raised  her  e3'es  ;  the}^  were  full  of  tears. 

*'  You  pain  me,"  she  said,  in  a  feeble  voice. 

It  was  getting  late ;  Doctor  Haudry  came,  and 
requested  the  husband  to  withdraw  during  his  visit. 
When  the  doctor  left  the  sick-room  Jules  asked  him 
no  question  ;    one  gesture  was  enough. 

"Call  in  consultation  any  physician  in  whom  you 
place  confidence  ;    I  ma}'  be  wrong." 

"  Doctor,  tell  me  the  truth.  I  am  a  man,  and  I  can 
bear  it.  Besides,  I  have  the  deepest  interest  in  know- 
ing it ;  I  have  certain  affairs  to  settle." 

"  Madame  Jules  is  dying,"  said  the  physician. 
"There  is  some  moral  malady  which  has  made  great 
progress,  and  it  has  complicated  her  physical  condi- 
tion, which  was  already  dangerous,  and  made  still 
more   so   hy  her  great    imprudence.     To  walk  about 


Ferragus.  145 

barefooted  at  night !  to  go  out  when  I  forbade  it ! 
on  foot  yesteiTlay  in  the  rain,  to-da}'  in  a  carriage ! 
She  must  have  meant  to  kill  herself.  But  still,  my 
judgment  is  not  final ;  she  has  youth,  and  a  most 
amazing  nervous  strength.  It  ma}'  be  best  to  risk  all 
to  win  all  bj'  employing  some  violent  reagent.  But  I 
will  not  take  upon  myself  to  order  it ;  nor  will  I  advise 
it ;  in  consultation  I  shall  oppose  it." 

Jules  returned  to  his  wife.  For  eleven  da3's  and 
eleven  nights  he  remained  beside  her  bed,  taking  no 
sleep  except  during  the  day  when  he  laid  his  head  upon 
the  foot  of  the  bed.  No  man  ever  pushed  the  jeal- 
ous}'  of  care  and  the  craving  for  devotion  to  such  an 
extreme  as  he.  He  could  not  endure  that  the  slightest 
service  should  be  done  by  others  for  his  wife.  There 
were  da3's  of  uncertaint}',  false  hopes,  now  a  little 
better,  then  a  crisis,  —  in  short,  all  the  horrible  muta- 
tions of  death  as  it  wavers,  hesitates,  and  finall}" 
strikes.  Madame  Jules  always  found  strength  to  smile 
at  her  husband.  She  pitied  him,  knowing  that  soon  he 
would  be  alone.  It  was  a  double  death,  —  that  of  life, 
that  of  love ;  but  life  grew  feebler  and  love  grew 
mightier.  One  frightful  night  there  was,  when  Cle- 
mence  passed  through  that  delirium  which  precedes 
the  death  of  youth.  She  talked  of  her  happy  love, 
she  talked  of  her  father ;  she  related  her  mother's 
revelations  on  her  death-bed,  and  the  obligations  that 

10 


146  Ferragus. 

mother  bad  laid  upon  her.  She  struggled,  not  for  life, 
but  for  her  love  which  she  could  not  leave. 

"  Grant,  O  God  !  "  she  said,  "  that  he  may  not  know 
I  want  him  to  die  with  me.*' 

Jules,  unable  to  bear  the  scene,  was  at  that  moment 
in  the  adjoining  room,  and  did  not  hear  the  praj'er, 
which  he  would  doubtless  have  fulfilled. 

When  this  crisis  was  over,  Madame  Jules  recovered 
some  strength.  The  next  day  she  was  beautiful  and 
tranquil ;  hope  seemed  to  come  to  her ;  she  adorned 
herself,  as  the  dying  often  do.  Then  she  asked  to 
be  alone  all  da}',  and  sent  away  her  husband  with 
one  of  those  entreaties  made  so  earnestly  that  they 
are  granted  as  we  grant  the  prayer  of  a  little  child. 

Jules,  indeed,  had  need  of  this  da}'.  He  went  to 
Monsieur  de  Maulincour  to  demand  the  satisfaction 
agreed  npon  between  them.  It  w^as  not  without  great 
difficulty  that  he  succeeded  in  reaching  the  presence  of 
the  author  of  these  misfortunes  ;  but  the  vidame,  when 
he  learned  that  the  visit  related  to  an  affair  of  honor, 
obeyed  the  precepts  of  his  whole  life,  and  himself 
took  Jules  into  the  baron's  chamber. 

Monsieur  Desmarets  looked  about  him  in  search  of 
his  antagonist. 

"Yes!  that  is  really  he,"  said  the  vidame,  motion- 
ins:  to  a  man  who  was  sittino;  in  an  arm-chair  beside 
the  fire. 


Ferragus.  147 

"  Who  is  it?  Jules?  "  said  the  dj'ing  man  in  a  broken 
voice. 

Auguste  had  lost  the  onl}'  facult}'  that  makes  us 
live  —  memory.  Jules  Desmarets  recoiled  with  horror 
at  this  sight.  He  could  not  even  recognize  the  elegant 
young  man  in  that  thing  without  —  as  Bossuet  said  — 
a  name  in  an}'  language.  It  was,  in  truth,  a  corpse 
with  whitened  hair,  its  bones  scarce  covered  with  a 
wrinkled,  blighted,  withered  skin,  —  a  corpse  with  wliite 
eyes  motionless,  mouth  hideously  gaping,  like  those 
of  idiots  or  vicious  men  killed  by  excesses.  No  trace 
of  intelligence  remained  upon  that  brow,  nor  in  any 
feature  ;  nor  was  there  in  that!  flabb}'  flesh  either  color 
or  the  faintest  appearance  of  circulating  blood.  Here 
was  a  shrunken,  withered  creature  brought  to  the  state 
of  those  monsters  we  see  preserved  in  museums,  float- 
ing in  alcohol.  Jules  fancied  that  he  saw  above  that 
face  the  terrible  head  of  Ferragus,  and  his  own  anger 
was  silenced  b}'  such  a  vengeance.  The  husband  found 
pit}'  in  his  heart  for  the  vacant  wreck  of  what  was  once 
a  man. 

"  The  duel  has  taken  place,"  said  the  vidame. 

"  But  he  has  killed  many,"  answered  Jules,  sorrow- 
fully. 

''And  many  dear  ones,"  added  the  old  man.  "  His 
grandmother  is  dying ;  and  I  shall  follow  her  soon  into 
the  grave." 


148  Ferragus. 

On  the  morrow  of  this  daj',  Madame  Jules  grew 
worse  from  hour  to  hour.  She  used  a  moment's 
strength  to  take  a  letter  from  beneath  her  pillow,  and 
gave  it  eagerl}'  to  her  husband  with  a  sign  that  was 
eas3"  to  understand,  —  she  wished  to  give  him,  in  a  kiss, 
her  last  breath.  He  took  it,  and  she  died.  Jules  fell 
half-dead  himself  and  was  taken  to  his  brother's  house. 
There,  as  he  deplored  in  tears  his  absence  of  the  da}' 
before,  his  brother  told  him  that  this  separation  was 
eagerly  desired  by  Clemence,  who  wished  to  spare  him 
the  sight  of  the  religious  paraphernalia,  so  terrible  to 
tender  imaginations,  which  the  Church  displays  when 
conferring  the  last  sacraments  upon  the  dying. 

"  You  could  not  have  borne  it,"  said  his  brother. 
"  I  could  hardl}'  bear  the  sight  myself,  and  all  the 
servants  wept.  Clemence  was  like  a  saint.  She  gath- 
ered strength  to  bid  us  all  good-bj-e,  and  that  voice, 
heard  for  the  last  time,  rent  our  hearts.  When  she 
asked  pardon  for  the  pain  she  might  unwillingly  have 
caused  her  servants,  there  were  cries  and  sobs  and  — " 

"  Enough,  enough  !  "  said  Jules. 

He  wanted  to  be  alone,  that  he  might  read  the  last 
words  of  the  woman  whom  all  had  loved,  and  who  had 
passed  awaj^  like  a  flower. 

"  My  beloved ;  this  is  my  last  will.  Why  should  we  not 
make  wills  for  the  treasures  of  our  hearts,  as  for  our  worldly 
property  ?    Was  not  my  love  my  property,  my  all  ?    I  mean 


Ferragus,  149 

here  to  dispose  of  my  love  :  it  was  the  only  fortune  of  your 
Clemence,  and  it  is  all  that  she  can  leave  you  in  dying. 
Jules,  you  love  me  still,  and  I  die  happy.  The  doctors  may 
explain  my  death  as  they  think  best;  T  alone  know  the 
true  cause.  I  shall  tell  it  to  you,  whatever  pain  it  may 
cause  you.  I  cannot  carry  with  me,  in  a  heart  all  yours, 
a  secret  which  you  do  not  share,  although  I  die  the  victim 
of  an  enforced  silence. 

"Jules,  I  was  nurtured  and  brought  up  in  the  deepest 
solitude,  far  from  the  vices  and  the  falsehoods  of  the  world, 
by  the  loving  woman  whom  you  knew.  Society  did  justice 
to  her  conventional  charm,  for  that  is  what  pleases  society ; 
but  I  knew  secretly  her  precious  soul,  I  could  cherish  the 
mother  who  made  my  childhood  a  joy  without  bitterness, 
and  I  knew  why  I  cherished  her.  Was  not  that  to  love 
doubly?  Yes,  I  loved  her,  I  feared  her,  I  respected  her: 
yet  nothing  oppressed  my  heart,  neither  fear  nor  respect. 
I  was  all  in  all  to  her;  she  was  all  in  all  to  me.  For  nine- 
teen happy  years,  without  a  care,  my  soul,  solitary  amid  the 
world  which  muttered  round  me,  reflected  only  her  pure 
image  ;  my  heart  beat  for  her  and  through  her.  I  was 
scrupulously  pious  ;  I  found  pleasure  in  being  innocent  be- 
fore God.  My  mother  cultivated  all  noble  and  self-respect- 
ing sentiments  in  me.  Ah!  it  gives  me  happiness  to  tell 
you,  Jules,  that  I  now  know  I  was  indeed  a  young  girl,  and 
that  I  came  to  you  virgin  in  heart. 

"When  I  left  that  absolute  solitude,  when,  for  the  first 
time,  I  braided  my  hair  and  crowned  it  with  almond  blos- 
soms, when  I  added,  with  delight,  a  few  satin  knots  to  my 
white  dress,  thinking  of  the  world  I  was  to  see,  and  which 
I  was  curious  to  see  —  Jules,  that  innocent  and  modest 
coquetry  was  done  for  you !   Yes,  as  I  entered  the  world,  I 


150  Ferragus. 

saw  you  first  of  all.  Your  face,  I  remarked  it;  it  stood  out 
from  the  rest;  your  person  pleased  me;  your  voice,  your 
manners,  all  inspired  me  with  pleasant  presentiments. 
When  you  came  up,  when  you  spoke  to  me,  the  color  on 
your  forehead,  the  tremble  in  yom'  voice,  —  that  moment 
gave  me  memories  with  which  I  throb  as  I  now  write  to 
you,  as  I  now,  for  the  last  time,  think  of  them.  Our  love  was 
at  first  the  keenest  of  sympathies,  but  it  was  soon  discovered 
by  each  of  us  and  then,  as  speedily,  shared  ;  just  as,  in  after 
times,  we  have  both  equally  felt  and  shared  innumerable 
happinesses.  From  that  moment  my  mother  was  only  sec- 
ond in  my  heart.  Next,  I  was  yours,  all  yours.  There  is 
my  life,  and  all  my  life,  dear  husband. 

"  And  here  is  what  remains  for  me  to  tell  you.  One  even- 
ing, a  few  days  before  my  mother's  death,  she  revealed  to 
me  the  secret  of  her  life,  —  not  without  burning  tears.  I 
have  loved  you  better  since  the  day  I  learned  from  the 
priest  as  he  absolved  my  mother  that  there  are  passions  con- 
demned by  the  world  and  by  the  Church.  But  surely  God 
will  not  be  severe  when  they  are  the  sins  of  souls  as  ten- 
der as  that  of  my  mother;  only,  that  dear  woman  could 
never  bring  herself  to  repent.  She  loved  much,  Jules ;  she 
was  all  love.  So  I  have  prayed  daily  for  her,  but  never 
judged  her. 

"  That  night  I  learned  the  cause  of  her  deep  maternal  ten- 
derness ;  then  I  also  learned  that  there  was  in  Paris  a  man 
whose  life  and  whose  love  centred  on  me ;  that  your  fortune 
was  his  doing,  and  that  he  loved  you.  I  learned  also  that 
he  was  exiled  from  society  and  bore  a  tarnished  name  ;  but 
that  he  was  more  unhappy  for  me,  for  us,  than  for  himself. 
My  mother  was  all  his  comfort ;  she  was  dying,  and  I  prom- 
ised to  take  her  place.     With  all  the  ardor  of  a  soul  whose 


Ferragus.  151 

feelings  had  never  been  perverted,  I  saw  only  the  happiness 
of  softening  the  bitterness  of  my  mother's  last  moments, 
and  I  pledged  myself  to  continue  her  work  of  secret  charity, 
—  the  charity  of  the  heart.  The  first  time  that  I  saw  my 
father  was  beside  the  bed  where  my  mother  had  just  ex- 
pired. When  he  raised  his  tearful  eyes,  it  was  to  see  in 
me  a  revival  of  his  dead  hopes.  I  had  sworn,  not  to  tell 
a  lie,  but  to  keep  silence;  and  that  silence  what  woman 
could  have  broken  it? 

"There  is  my  fault,  Jules,  —  a  fault  which  I  expiate  by 
death.  I  doubted  you.  But  fear  is  so  natural  to  a  woman  ; 
above  all,  a  woman  who  knows  what  it  is  that  she  may  lose.  I 
trembled  for  our  love.  My  father's  secret  seemed  to  me  the 
death  of  my  happiness ;  and  the  more  I  loved,  the  more  I 
feared.  I  dared  not  avow  this  feeling  to  my  father ;  it 
would  have  wounded  him,  and  in  his  situation  a  wound  was 
agony.  But,  without  a  word  from  me,  he  shared  my  fears. 
That  fatherly  heart  trembled  for  my  happiness  as  much  as  I 
trembled  for  myself;  but  it  dared  not  speak,  obeying  the 
same  delicacy  that  kept  me  mute.  Yes,  Jules,  I  believed 
that  you  could  not  love  the  daughter  of  Gratien  Bourignard 
as  you  loved  your  Clemence.  Without  that  terror  could  I 
have  kept  back  anything  from  you,  —  you  who  live  in  every 
fold  of  my  heart? 

"  The  day  when  that  odious,  unfortunate  young  officer 
spoke  to  you,  I  was  forced  to  lie.  That  day,  for  the  second 
time  in  my  life,  I  knew  what  pain  was ;  that  pain  has 
steadily  increased  until  this  moment,  when  I  speak  with 
you  for  the  last  time.  What  matters  now  my  father's 
position  ?  You  know  all.  I  could,  by  the  help  of  my  love, 
have  conquered  my  illness  and  borne  its  sufferings ;  but 
I  cannot    stifle    the   voice   of  doubt.     Is    it    not  probable 


152  Ferragus. 

that  my  origin  would  affect  the  purity  of  your  love  and 
weaken  it,  diminish  it  ?  That  fear  nothing  has  been  able 
to  quench  in  me.  There,  Jules,  is  the  cause  of  my  death. 
I  cannot  live  fearing  a  word,  a  look,  —  a  word  you  may 
never  say,  a  look  you  may  never  give ;  but,  I  cannot  help  it, 
I  fear  them.     I  die  beloved  ;  there  is  my  consolation. 

"  I  have  known,  for  the  last  three  years,  that  my  father 
and  his  friends  have  well-nigh  moved  the  world  to  deceive 
the  world.  That  I  might  have  a  station  in  life,  they  have 
bought  a  dead  man,  a  reputation,  a  fortune,  so  that  a  living 
man  might  live  again,  restored  ;  and  all  this  for  you,  for  us. 
We  were  never  to  have  known  of  it.  WeU,  my  death  will 
save  my  father  from  that  falsehood,  for  he  will  not  sur- 
vive me. 

"  Farewell,  Jules  ;  my  heart  is  all  here.  To  show  you  my 
love  in  its  agony  of  fear,  is  not  that  bequeathing  my  whole 
soul  to  you  ?  I  could  never  have  the  strength  to  speak  to 
you  ;  I  have  only  enough  to  write.  I  have  just  confessed  to 
God  the  sins  of  my  life.  I  have  promised  to  fill  my  mind 
with  the  King  of  Heaven  only ;  but  I  must  confess  myself 
to  him  who  is,  for  me,  the  whole  of  earth.  Alas  !  shall  I  not 
be  pardoned  for  this  last  sigh  between  the  life  that  was  and 
the  life  that  shall  be  ?  Farewell,  my  Jules,  my  loved 
one  !  I  go  to  God,  with  whom  is  Love  without  a  cloud,  to 
whom  you  will  follow  me.  There,  before  his  throne,  united 
forever,  we  may  love  each  other  throughout  the  ages.  This 
hope  alone  can  comfort  me.  If  I  am  worthy  of  being  there 
at  once,  I  will  follow  you  through  life.  My  soul  shall  bear 
you  company;  it  will  wrap  you  about,  for  you  must  stay 
here  still,  — ah !  here  below.  Lead  a  holy  life  that  you  may 
the  more  surely  come  to  me.  You  can  do  such  good  upon 
this  earth !     Is  it  not  an  angel's  mission  for  the  suffering 


Ferragus.  153 

soul  to  shed  happiness  about  him,  —  to  give  to  others  that 
which  he  has  not  ?  I  bequeath  you  to  the  Unhappy.  Their 
smiles,  their  tears,  are  the  only  ones  of  which  I  cannot  be 
jealous.  We  shall  find  a  charm  in  sweet  beneficence.  Can 
we  not  live  together  still  if  you  would  join  my  name  —  your 
Clemence  —  in  these  good  works  ? 

"  After  loving  as  we  have  loved,  there  is  naught  but  God, 
Jules.  God  does  not  lie ;  God  never  betrays.  Adore  him 
only,  I  charge  you  !  Lead  those  who  suffer  up  to  him ;  com- 
fort the  sorrowing  members  of  his  Church.  Farewell,  dear 
soul  that  I  have  filled !  I  know  you ;  you  will  never  love 
again.  I  may  die  happy  in  the  thought  that  makes  all 
women  happy.  Yes,  my  grave  will  be  your  heart.  After  this 
childhood  I  have  just  related,  has  not  my  life  flowed  on 
within  that  heart?  Dead,  you  will  never  drive  me  forth. 
I  am  proud  of  that  rare  life  !  You  will  know  me  only  in 
the  flower  of  my  youth  ;  I  leave  you  regrets  without  disillu- 
sions.    Jules,  it  is  a  happy  death. 

"  You,  who  have  so  fully  understood  me,  may  I  ask  one 
thing  more  of  you,  —  superfluous  request,  perhaps,  the  ful- 
filment of  a  woman's  fancy,  the  prayer  of  a  jealousy  we  all 
must  feel,  —  I  pray  you  to  burn  all  that  especially  belonged 
to  us,  destroy  our  chamber,  annihilate  all  that  is  a  memory 
of  our  happiness. 

"  Once  more,  farewell,  —  the  last  farewell !  It  is  all 
love,  and  so  will  be  my  parting  thought,  my  parting 
breath." 

When  Jules  had  read  that  letter  there  came  into  his 
heart  one  of  those  wild  frenzies  of  which  it  is  impos- 
sible to  describe  the  awful  anguish.  All  sorrows  are 
individual ;  their  effects  are  not  subjected  to  anj-  fixed 


154  Ferragus. 

rule.  Certain  men  will  stop  their  ears  to  hear  nothing ; 
some  women  close  their  e3'es  hoping  never  to  see  again  ; 
great  and  splendid  souls  are  met  with  who  fling  them- 
selves into  sorrow  as  into  an  abyss.  In  the  matter  of 
despair,  all  is  true. 


Ferragus.  155 


V. 


CONCLUSION. 

Jules  escaped  from  his  brother's  house  and  returned 
home,  wishing  to  pass  the  night  beside  his  wife,  and 
see  till  tlie  last  moment  that  celestial  creature.  As  he 
walked  along  with  an  indilference  to  life  known  only 
to  those  who  have  reached  the  last  degree  of  wretched- 
ness, he  thought  of  how,  in  India,  the  law  ordained 
that  widows  should  die  ;  he  longed  to  die.  He  was 
not  3'et  crushed ;  the  fever  of  his  grief  was  still  upon 
him.  He  reached  his  home  and  went  up  into  the 
sacred  chamber ;  he  saw  his  Clemence  on  the  bed 
of  death,  beautiful,  like  a  saint,  her  hair  smoothly 
laid  upon  her  forehead,  her  hands  joined,  her  body 
wrapped  alread}'  in  its  shroud.  Tapers  were  lighted,  a 
priest  was  pra3'ing,  Josephine  kneeling  in  a  corner,  wept, 
and,  near  the  bed,  were  two  men.  One  was  Ferragus. 
He  stood  erect,  motionless,  gazing  at  his  daughter 
with  dr}'  ej'es ;  his  head  you  might  have  taken  for 
bronze  :    he  did  see  Jules. 

The  other  man  was  Jacquet, — Jacquct,  to  whom 
Madame  Jules  had  been  ever  kind.  Jacquet  felt  for 
her  one  of  those  respectful  friendships  which  rejoice 


156  Ferragus. 

the  untroubled  heart ;  a  gentle  passion ;  love  without 
its  desires  and  its  storms.  He  had  come  to  pay  his 
debt  of  tears,  to  bid  a  long  adieu  to  the  wife  of  his 
friend,  to  kiss,  for  the  first  time,  the  ic}'  brow  of  the 
woman  he  had  tacitly  made  his  sister. 

All  was  silence.  Here  death  was  neither  terrible  as 
in  the  churches,  nor  pompous  as  it  makes  its  waj'  along 
the  streets ;  no,  it  was  death  in  the  home,  a  tender 
death ;  here  were  pomps  of  the  heart,  tears  drawn 
from  the  e^-es  of  all.  Jules  sat  down  beside  Jacquet 
and  pressed  his  hand ;  then,  without  uttering  a  word, 
all  these  persons  remained  as  they  were  till  morning. 

When  daylight  paled  the  tapers,  Jacquet,  foreseeing 
the  painful  scenes  which  would  then  take  place,  drew 
Jules  away  into  another  room.  At  this  moment  the 
husband  looked  at  the  father,  and  Ferragus  looked  at 
Jules.  The  two  sorrows  arraigned  each  other,  meas- 
ured each  other,  and  comprehended  each  other  in  that 
look.  A  flash  of  fury  shone  for  an  instant  in  the  e3'es 
of  Ferragus. 

*'  You  killed  her,"  thought  he. 

^'  Why  was  I  distrusted?"  seemed  the  answer  of  the 
husband. 

The  scene  was  one  that  might  have  passed  between 
two  tigers  recognizing  the  futilit}"  of  a  struggle  and, 
after  a  moment's  hesitation,  turning  away,  without 
even  a  roar. 


Ferragus.  157 

"  Jacquet,"  said  Jules,  "have  3'ou  attended  to  every- 
thing?" 

"Yes,  to  ever3'thing,"  replied  his  friend,  "but  a 
man  had  forestalled  me  who  had  ordered  and  paid 
for  all." 

"He  tears  his  daughter  from  me!"  cried  the  hus- 
band, with  the  violence  of  despair. 

Jules  rushed  back  to  his  wife's  room ;  but  the  father 
was  there  no  longer.  Clemence  had  now  been  placed 
in  a  leaden  coffin,  and  workmen  were  employed  in 
soldering  the  cover.  Jules  returned,  horrified  b}'  the 
sight ;  the  sound  of  the  hammers  the  men  were  using 
made  him  mechanically  burst  into  tears. 

"  Jacquet,"  he  said,  "  out  of  this  dreadful  night  one 
idea  has  come  to  me,  onl}^  one,  but  one  I  must  make  a 
reality  at  an}'  price.  I  cannot  let  Clemence  sta}'  in 
any  cemetery  in  Paris.  I  wish  to  burn  her,  —  to  gather 
her  ashes  and  keep  her  with  me.  Say  nothing  of  this, 
but  manage  on  my  behalf  to  have  it  done.  I  am  going 
to  her  chamber,  where  1  shall  stay  until  the  time  has 
come  to  go.  You  alone  may  come  in  there  to  tell  me 
what  3'ou  have  done.     Go,  and  spare  nothing." 

During  the  morning,  Madame  Jules,  after  lying  in  a 
mortuar}'  chapel  at  the  door  of  her  house,  was  taken  to 
Saint- Roch.  The  church  was  hung  with  black  through- 
out. The  sort  of  luxur}"  thus  displayed  had  drawn  a 
crowd ;   for  in  Paris  all  things  are  sights,  even  true 


158  Ferragus. 

grief.  There  are  persons  who  stand  at  their  windows 
to  see  how  a  son  deplores  a  mother  as  he  follows  her 
bod}' ;  there  are  others'  who  hire  commodious  seats  to 
see  how  a  head  is  made  to  fall.  No  people  in  the 
world  have  such  insatiate  e^'es  as  the  Parisians.  On 
this  occasion,  inquisitive  minds  were  particularl}'  sur- 
prised to  see  the  six  lateral  chapels  at  Saint-Roch  also 
hung  in  black.  Two  men  in  mourning  were  listening 
to  a  mortuary  mass  said  in  each  chapel.  In  the  chan- 
cel no  other  persons  but  Monsieur  Desmarets,  the 
notar}',  and  Jacquet  were  present :  the  servants  of 
the  household  were  outside  the  screen.  To  church 
loungers  there  was  something  inexplicable  in  so  much 
pomp  and  so  few  mourners.  But  Jules  had  been  de- 
termined that  no  indifferent  persou  should  be  present 
at  the  ceremony. 

High  mass  was  celebrated  with  the  sombre  magnifi- 
cence of  funeral  services.  Beside  the  ministers  in  ordi= 
nary  of  Saint-Roch,  thirteen  priests  from  other  parishes 
were  present.  Perhaps  never  did  the  Dies  irce  pro- 
duce upon  Christians,  assembled  by  chance,  bj'  curi- 
osit}',  and  thirsting  for  emotions,  an  effect  so  profound, 
so  nervously  glacial  as  that  now  caused  b}'  this  hymn 
when  the  eight  voices  of  the  precentors,  accompanied 
b}'  the  voices  of  the  priests  and  the  choir-boys,  intoned 
it  alternateh'.  From  the  six  lateral  chapels  twelve 
other  childish    voices   rose    shrilh*  in    grief,    mingling 


Ferragus.  159 

with  the  choir  voices  lamentably.  From  all  parts 
of  the  church  this  mourning  issued ;  cries  of  an- 
guish responded  to  the  cries  of  fear.  That  terrible 
music  was  the  voice  of  sorrows  hidden  from  the  world, 
of  secret  friendships  weeping  for  the  dead.  Never, 
in  any  human  religion,  have  the  terrors  of  the  soul, 
violentl}'  torn  from  the  bod}'  and  storniily  shaken  iu 
presence  of  the  fulminating  majest}'  of  God,  been 
rendered  with  such  force.  Before  that  clamor  of 
clamors  all  artists  and  their  most  passionate  compo- 
sitions must  bow  humiliated.  No,  nothing  can  stand 
beside  that  hymn,  which  sums  all  human  passions, 
gives  them  a  galvanic  life  beyond  the  coffin,  and  leaves 
them,  palpitating  still,  before  the  living  and  avenging 
God.  These  cries  of  childhood,  mingling  with  the 
tones  of  older  voices,  including  thus  in  the  Song  of 
Death  all  human  life  and  its  developments,  recalling 
the  sufferings  of  the  cradle,  swelling  to  the  griefs  of 
other  ages  in  the  stronger  male  voices  and  the  quaver- 
ing of  the  priests,  —  all  this  strident  harmonj',  big  with 
lightning  and  thunderbolts,  does  it  not  speak  with  equal 
force  to  the  daring  imagination,  the  coldest  heart,  nay, 
to  philosophers  themselves?  As  we  hear  it,  we  think 
God  speaks  ;  the  vaulted  arches  of  no  church  are  mere 
material ;  they  have  a  voice,  the}'  tremble,  the}'  scatter 
fear  by  the  might  of  their  echoes.  We  think  we  see 
unnumbered  dead  arising  and  holding  out  their  hands. 


160  Ferragus. 

It  is  no  more  a  father,  a  wife,  a  child,  —  humanit}^  it- 
self is  rising  from  its  dust. 

It  is  impossible  to  judge  of  the  catholic,  apostolic, 
and  Roman  faith,  unless  the  soul  has  known  that  deep- 
est grief  of  mourning  for  a  loved  one  lying  beneath 
the  pall ;  unless  it  has  felt  the  emotions  that  fill  the 
heart,  uttered  by  that  Hymn  of  Despair,  by  those  cries 
that  crush  the  mind,  by  that  sacred  fear  augmenting 
strophe  by  strophe,  ascending  heavenward,  which  ter- 
rifies, belittles,  and  elevates  the  soul,  and  leaves  with- 
in our  minds,  as  the  last  sound  ceases,  a  consciousness 
of  immortality.  We  have  met  and  struggled  with  the 
vast  idea  of  the  Infinite.  After  that,  all  is  silent  in  the 
church.  No  word  is  said ;  sceptics  themselves  k7iow 
not  what  they  are  feeling.  Spanish  genius  alone  was 
able  to  bring  this  untold  majesty  to  untold  griefs. 

When  the  solemn  ceremony  was  over,  twelve  men 
came  from  the  six  chapels  and  stood  around  the  cof- 
fin to  hear  the  song  of  hope  which  the  Church  intones 
for  the  Christian  soul  before  the  human  form  is  bur- 
ied. Then,  each  man  entered  alone  a  mourning-coach ; 
Jacquet  and  Monsieur  Desmarets  took  the  thirteenth ; 
the  servants  followed  on  foot.  An  hour  later,  they 
were  at  the  summit  of  that  cemeter}'  popularl}-  called 
Pere-Lachaise.  The  unknown  twelve  men  stood  in  a 
circle  round  the  grave,  where  the  coffin  had  been  laid  in 
presence  of  a  crowd  of  loiterers  gathered  from  all  parts 


Ferragus.  161 

of  tills  public  garden.  After  a  few  slioi-t  prayers  the 
priest  threw  a  handful  of  earth  on  the  remains  of  this 
woman,  and  the  grave-diggers,  having  asked  for  their 
fee,  made  haste  to  fill  the  grave  in  order  to  dig  another. 

Here  this  history  seems  to  end ;  but  perhaps  it 
would  be  incomplete  if,  after  giving  a  rapid  sketch  of 
Parisian  life,  and  following  certain  of  its  capricious 
undulations,  the  eflTects  of  death  were  omitted.  Death 
in  Paris  is  uulike  death  in  any  other  capital ;  few  per- 
sons know  the  trials  of  true  grief  in  its  struggle  with 
civilization,  and  the  government  of  Paris.  Perhaps, 
also,  Monsieur  Jules  and  Ferragus  XXIII.  may  linve 
proved  sufficienth'  interesting  to  make  a  few  words  on 
their  after  life  not  entirely  out  of  {)lace.  Besides, 
some  persons  like  to  be  told  all,  and  wish,  as  one  of 
our  cleverest  critics  has  remarked,  to  know  by  what 
chemical  process  oil  was  made  to  burn  in  Aladdin's 
lamp. 

Jacquet,  being  a  government  employe,  naturally  ap- 
plied to  the  authorities  for  permission  to  exhume  the 
bod}'  of  Madame  Jules  and  burn  it.  He  went  to  see 
the  prefect  of  police,  under  whose  protection  the  dead 
sleep.  That  functionary  demanded  a  petition.  The 
blank  was  bought  that  gives  to  sorrow  its  proper  ad- 
ministrative form ;  it  was  necessary  to  emplo}'  the 
bureaucratic  jargon  to  express  the  wishes  of  a  man  so 
crushed  that  words,  perhaps,  were  lacking  to  him,  and 

11 


162  Ferragus. 

it  was  also  necessary  to  coldly  and  briefl}'  repeat  on 
the  margin  the  nature  of  the  request,  which  was  done 
in  these  words:  "The  petitioner  respectfully  asks 
for  the  incineration  of  his  wife." 

When  the  official  charged  with  making  the  report  to 
the  Councillor  of  State  and  prefect  of  police  read  that 
marginal  note,  explaining  the  object  of  the  petition, 
and  couched,  as  requested,  in  the  plainest  terms,  he 
said :  — 

"This  is  a  serious  matter!  my  report  cannot  be 
read}^  under  eight  days." 

Jules,  to  whom  Jacquet  was  obliged  to  speak  of  this 
delay,  comprehended  the  words  that  Ferragus  had  said 
in  his  hearing,  "I'll  burn  Paris!"  Nothing  seemed 
to  him  now  more  natural  than  to  annihilate  that  re- 
ceptacle of  monstrous  things. 

"  But,"  he  said  to  Jacquet,  "3'ou  must  go  to  the  min- 
ister of  the  Interior,  and  get  your  minister  to  speak 
to  him." 

Jacquet  went  to  the  minister  of  the  Interior,  and 
asked  an  audience  ;  it  was  granted,  l)ut  the  time  ap- 
pointed was  two  weeks  later.  Jacquet  was  a  persistent 
man.  He  travelled  from  bureau  to  bureau,  and  finally 
reached  the  private  secretary  of  the  minister  of  the 
Interior,  to  whom  he  had  made  the  private  secretary 
of  his  own  minister  say  a  word.  These  liigli  protec- 
tors aiding,  he  obtained  for  the  morrow  a  second  inter- 


Ferragus.  163 

view,  in  which,  being  armed  with  a  line  from  the 
autocrat  of  Foreign  affairs  to  the  pacha  of  the  Inte- 
rior, Jacquet  hoped  to  carry  the  matter  by  assault.  He 
was  ready  with  reasons,  and  answers  to  peremptory 
questions,  —  in  sliort,  he  was  armed  at  all  points  ;  but 
he  failed. 

"This  matter  does  not  concern  me,"  said  the  min- 
ister; "it  belongs  to  the  prefect  of  police.  Besides, 
there  is  no  law  giving  a  husband  anj'  legal  right  to  the 
bod}'  of  his  wife,  nor  to  fathers  those  of  their  children. 
The  matter  is  serious.  There  are  questions  of  public 
utility  involved  which  will  have  to  be  examined.  The 
interests  of  the  city  of  Paris  might  suffer.  Therefore 
if  the  matter  depended  on  me,  which  it  does  not,  I  could 
not  decide  Idc  et  nunc;  I  should  require  a  report." 

A  report  is  to  the  present  S3'stem  of  administration 
what  limbo  or  hades  is  to  Christianit}'.  Jacquet  knew 
very  well  the  mania  for  "  reports  ;  "  he  had  not  waited 
until  this  occasion  to  groan  at  that  bureaucratic  ab- 
surdity. He  knew  that  since  the  invasion  into  public 
business  of  the  Report  (an  administrative  revolution 
consummated  in  1804)  there  was  never  known  a  single 
minister  who  would  take  upon  himself  to  have  an  opin- 
ion or  to  decide  the  slightest  matter,  unless  that  opinion 
or  matter  had  been  winnowed,  sifted  and  plucked  to 
bits  by  the  paper-spoilers,  quill-drivers,  and  splendid 
intellects  of  his  particular  bureau.     Jacquet  —  he  was 


164  Ferragus. 

one  of  those  men  who  are  worth}'  of  Pkitarch  as  bio<2:- 
rapher  —  saw  that  he  had  made  a  mistake  in  his  man- 
agement of  the  affair,  and  had,  in  fact,  rendered  it 
impossible  hy  tr3ing  to  proceed  legall}'.  The  thing 
he  should  have  done  was  to  have  taken  Madame  Jules 
to  one  of  Desmaret's  estates  in  the  country- ;  and  there, 
under  the  good-natured  authority  of  some  village  ma3'or 
to  have  gratified  the  sorrowful  longing  of  his  friend. 
Law,  constitutional  and  administrative,  begets  nothing ; 
it  is  a  barren  monster  for  peoples,  for  kings,  and  for 
private  interests.  But  the  peoples  decipher  no  princi- 
ples but  those  that  are  writ  in  blood,  and  the  evils  of 
legality  will  always  be  pacific;  it  flattens  a  nation 
down,  that  is  all.  Jacquet,  a  man  of  modern  libert}', 
returned  home  reflecting  on  the  benefits  of  arbitrary 
power. 

When  he  went  with  his  report  to  Jules,  he  found  it 
necessar}'  to  deceive  him,  for  the  unhappy  man  was  in 
a  high  fever,  unable  to  leave  his  bed.  The  minister  of 
the  Interior  mentioned,  at  a  ministerial  dinner  that 
same  evening,  the  singular  fanc}'  of  a  Parisian  in  wish- 
ing to  burn  his  wife  after  the  manner  of  the  Romans. 
The  clubs  of  Paris  took  up  the  subject,  and  talked  for 
a  while  of  the  burials  of  antiquity.  Ancient  things 
were  just  then  becoming  a  fashion,  and  some  persons 
declared  that  it  would  be  a  fine  thing  to  re-establish,  for 
distinguished  persons,  the  funeral  pyre.     This  opinion 


Ferragus.  165 

had  its  defenders  and  its  detractors.  Some  said  that 
there  were  too  man}'  such  personages,  and  the  price  of 
wood  would  be  enormously  increased  by  such  a  custom  ; 
moreover,  it  would  be  absurd  to  see  our  ancestors  in 
their  urns  in  the  procession  at  Longchamps.  And  if 
the  urns  were  valuable,  they  were  likely  some  da}'  to 
be  sold  at  auction,  full  of  respectable  ashes,  or  seized 
b}'  creditors,  —  a  race  of  men  who  respected  nothing. 
The  other  side  made  answer  that  our  ancestors  were 
much  safer  in  urns  than  at  Pere-Lachaise,  for  before 
very  long  the  city  of  Paris  would  be  compelled  to  order 
a  Saint-Bartholomew  against  its  dead,  who  were  invad- 
ing the  neighboring  country',  and  threatening  to  invade 
the  territory  of  Brie.  It  was,  in  short,  one  of  tliose 
futile  but  witty  discussions  which  sometimes  cause 
deep  and  painful  wounds.  Happily  for  Jules,  he  knew 
nothing  of  the  conversations,  the  witty  speeches,  and 
arguments  which  his  sorrow  had  furnished  to  the 
tongues  of  Paris. 

The  prefect  of  police  was  indignant  that  Monsieur 
Jacquet  had  appealed  to  a  minister  to  avoid  the  wise 
delays  of  the  commissioners  of  the  public  highways ; 
for  the  exhumation  of  Madame  Jules  was  a  question 
belonging  to  that  department.  The  police  bureau  was 
doing  its  best  to  reply  promptl}'  to  the  petition  ;  one 
appeal  was  quite  sufficient  to  set  the  office  in  motion, 
and  once  in  motion  matters  would  go  far.     But  as  for 


166  Ferragus. 

the  administration,  that  might  take  the  case  before  the 
Council  of  state,  —  a  machine  very  difficult  indeed  to 
move. 

After  the  second  da}^  Jacquet  was  obliged  to  tell  his 
friend  that  he  must  renounce  his  desire,  because,  in  a 
cit}^  where  the  number  of  tears  shed  on  black  draperies 
is  tariffed,  where  the  laws  recognize  seven  classes  of 
funerals,  where  the  scrap  of  ground  to  hold  the  dead 
is  sold  at  its  weight  in  silver,  where  grief  is  worked  for 
what  it  is  worth,  where  the  pra3'ers  of  the  Church  are 
costly,  and  -the  vestry  claim  pa3'ment  for  extra  voices 
in  the  Dies  irce^  —  all  attempt  to  get  out  of  the  rut 
prescribed  by  the  autliorities  for  sorrow  is  useless  and 
impossible. 

"  It  would  have  been  to  me,"  said  Jules,  "  a  com- 
fort in  ni}^  miser}'.  I  meant  to  have  died  away  from 
here,  and  I  hoped  to  hold  her  in  m}'  arms  in  a  distant 
grave.  I  did  not  know  that  bureaucracy  could  send  its 
claws  into  our  ver}'  coffins." 

He  now  wished  to  see  if  room  had  been  left  for  him 
beside  his  wife.  The  two  friends  went  to  the  cemetery. 
When  they  reached  it  the}"  found  (as  at  the  doors  of 
museums,  galleries,  and  coach-offices)  ciceroni^  who 
proposed  to  guide  them  through  the  labjTinth  of  Pere- 
Lachaise.  Neither  Jules  nor  Jacquet  could  have  found 
the  spot  where  Clemence  lay.  Ah,  frightful  anguish ! 
They  went  to  the  lodge  to  consult  the  porter  of  the 


Ferragus.  167 

cemetery.  The  dead  have  a  porter,  and  there  are 
hours  when  the  dead  are  "not  receiving."  It  is  ne- 
cessary to  upset  all  the  rules  and  regulations  of  the 
upper  and  lower  police  to  obtain  permission  to  weep 
at  night,  in  silence  and  solitude,  over  the  grave  where 
a  loved  one  lies.  There  's  a  rule  for  summer  and  a 
rule  for  winter  about  this. 

Certainly,  of  all  the  porters  in  Paris,  the  porter  of 
Pere-Lachaise  is  the  luckiest.  In  the  first  place,  he  has 
no  gate-cord  to  pull ;  then,  instead  of  a  lodge,  he  has  a 
house,  —  an  establishment  which  is  not  quite  ministe- 
rial, although  a  vast  number  of  persons  come  under  his 
administration,  and  a  good  many  employes.  And  this 
governor  of  the  dead  has  a  salary,  with  emoluments, 
and  acts  under  powers  of  which  none  complain ;  he 
plays  despot  at  his  ease.  His  lodge  is  not  a  place  of 
business,  though  it  has  departments  where  the  book- 
keeping of  receipts,  expenses,  and  profits,  is  carried 
on.  The  man  is  not  a  Suisse^  nor  a  concierge,  nor  actu- 
ally a  porter.  The  gate  which  admits  the  dead  stands 
wide  open ;  and  though  there  are  monuments  and 
buildings  to  be  cared  for,  he  is  not  a  care-taker.  In 
short,  he  is  an  indefinable  anomaly,  an  authorit\'  which 
participates  in  all,  and  yet  is  nothing,  —  an  authoritj^ 
placed,  like  the  dead  on  whom  it  is  based,  outside  of 
all.  Nevertheless,  this  exceptional  man  grows  out  of 
the  city  of  Paris,  —  that  chimerical  creation  like  the  ship 


168  Ferragus. 

which  is  its  emblem,  that  Creature  of  reason  moving 
on  a  tlioiisand  paws  which  are  seldom  unanimous  in 
motion. 

This  guardian  of  the  cemetery  may  be  called  a  con- 
cierge who  has  reached  the  condition  of  a  functionary, 
not  soluble  by  dissolution  !  His  place  is  far  from  being 
a  sinecure.  He  does  not  allow  any  one  to  be  buried 
without  a  permit ;  he  must  count  his  dead.  He  points 
out  to  you  in  this  vast  field  the  six  feet  square  of  earth 
where  you  will  one  da}^  put  all  you  love,  or  all  you 
hate,  a  mistress,  or  a  cousin.  Yes,  remember  this  :  all 
the  feelings  and  emotions  of  Paris  come  to  end  here,  at 
this  porter's  lodge,  where  the}'  are  administrationized. 
This  man  has  registers  in  which  his  dead  are  booked ; 
the}'  are  in  their  graves,  and  also  on  his  records.  He 
has  under  him  keepers,  gardeners,  grave-diggers,  and 
their  assistants.  He  is  a  personage.  Mourning  hearts 
do  not  speak  to  him  at  first.  He  does  not  appear  at 
all  except  in  serious  cases,  such  as  one  corpse  mis- 
taken for  another,  a  murdered  body,  an  exhumation, 
a  dead  man  coming  to  life.  The  bust  of  the  reigning 
king  is  in  his  hall ;  possibly  he  keeps  the  late  royal, 
imperial,  and  quasi-royal  busts  in  some  cupboard,  —  a 
sort  of  little  Pcre-Lachaise  all  ready  for  revolutions. 
In  short,  he  is  a  public  man,  an  excellent  man,  good 
husband,  and  good  father,  —  epitaph  apart.  But  so 
many  diverse  sentiments  have  passed  before  him  on 


Ferragus.  169 

biers  ;  he  has  seen  so  man}'  tears,  true  and  false  ;  he 
has  beheld  sorrow  under  so  man}'  aspects  and  on  so 
many  faces  ;  he  has  heard  such  endless  thousands  of 
eternal  woes, —  that  to  him  sorrow  has  come  to  be  noth- 
ing more  than  a  stone  an  inch  thick,  four  feet  long, 
and  twenty-four  inches  wide.  As  for  regrets,  they 
are  the  annoyances  of  his  office ;  he  neither  break- 
fasts nor  dines  without  first  wiping  off  the  rain  of  an 
inconsolable  affliction.  He  is  kind  and  tender  to  other 
feelings :  he  will  weep  over  a  stage-hero,  over  Mon- 
sieur Germeuil  in  the  "  Auberge  des  Adrets,"  the  man 
with  the  butter-colored  breeches,  murdered  by  Macaire ; 
but  his  heart  is  ossified  in  the  matter  of  real  dead  men. 
Dead  men  are  ciphers,  numbers,  to  him  ;  it  is  his  busi- 
ness to  organize  death.  Yet  he  does  meet,  three  times 
in  a  centur}',  perhaps,  with  an  occasion  when  his  part 
becomes  sublime,  and  then  he  is  sublime  through  every 
hour  of  his  da}',  —  in  times  of  pestilence. 

When  Jacquet  approached  him  this  absolute  mon- 
arch was  evidenth"  out  of  temper. 

"  I  told  5'ou,"  he  was  saying,  "  to  water  the  flowers 
from  the  rue  Massena  to  the  place  Regnault  de  Saint- 
Jean-d'Angel}'.  You  paid  no  attention  to  me  !  Sac-a- 
papier  !  suppose  the  relations  should  take  it  into  their 
heads  to  come  here  to-day  because  the  weather  is  fine, 
what  would  they  say  to  me  ?  The}'  'd  shriek  as  if  they 
■were  burned;  they'd  say  horrid  things  of  us,  and 
calumniate  us  —  " 


1 70  Ferragus. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Jacquet,  "  we  want  to  know  where 
Madame  Jules  is  buried." 

"Madame  Jules  wlio?^^  he  asked.  "We've  had 
three  Madame  Jules  within  the  last  week.  Ah,"  he 
said,  interrupting  himself,  "here  comes  the  funeral  of 
Monsieur  le  Baron  de  Maulincour  !  A  fine  procession, 
that !  He  has  soon  followed  his  grandmother.  Some 
families,  when  they  begin  to  go,  rattle  down  like  a 
wager.     Lots  of  bad  blood  in  Parisians." 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Jacquet,  touching  him  on  the  arm, 
"the  person  I  spoke  of  is  Madame  Jules  Desmarets, 
the  wife  of  the  broker  of  that  name." 

"Ah,  I  know!"  he  replied,  looking  at  Jacquet. 
"  Was  n't  it  a  funeral  with  thirteen  mourning  coaches, 
and  only  one  mourner  in  the  twelve  first?  It  was  so 
droll  we  all  noticed  it  —  " 

"Monsieur,  take  care,  Monsieur  Desmarets  is  with 
me ;  he  might  hear  you,  and  what  you  say  is  not 
seemly." 

"I  beg  pardon,  monsieur!  you  are  quite  right. 
Excuse  me,  I  took  yon  for  heirs.  Monsieur,"  he  con- 
tinued, after  consulting  a  plan  of  the  cemetery,  "  Ma- 
dame Jules  is  in  the  rue  Marechal  Lefebre,  alley  No.  4, 
between  Mademoiselle  Raucourt,  of  the  Comedie-Fran- 
9aise,  and  Monsieur  Moreau-Malvin,  a  butcher,  for 
whom  a  handsome  tomb  in  white  marble  "has  been 
ordered,  which  will  be  one  of  the  finest  in  the 
cemetery  — '' 


Ferragus.  171 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Jacquet,  interrupting  him,  "  that 
does  not  help  us." 

''  True,"  said  the  official,  looking  round  him.  "  Jean," 
he  cried,  to  a  man  whom  he  saw  at  a  little  distance, 
"  conduct  these  gentlemen  to  the  grave  of  Madame 
Jules  Desmarets,  the  broker's  wife.  You  know  where 
it  is,  —  near  to  Mademoiselle  Raucourt,  the  tomb  where 
there  's  a  bust." 

The  two  friends  followed  the  guide  ;  but  they  did  not 
reach  the  steep  path  which  leads  to  the  upper  part  of 
the  cemetery  without  having  to  pass  through  a  score  of 
proposals  and  requests,  made,  with  honied  softness,  b}'' 
the  touts  of  marble-workers,  iron-founders,  and  monu- 
mental sculptors. 

"  If  monsieur  would  like  to  order  something,  we  would 
do  it  on  the  most  reasonable  terms." 

Jacquet  was  fortunate  enough  to  be  able  to  spare  his 
friend  the  hearing  of  these  proposals  so  agonizing  to 
bleeding  hearts ;  and  presently  they  reached  the  rest- 
ing-place. When  Jules  beheld  the  earth  so  recently 
dug,  into  which  the  masons  had  stuck  stakes  to  mark 
the  place  for  the  stone  posts  required  to  support  the 
iron  railing,  he  turned  and  leaned  upon  Jacquet's  shoul- 
der, raising  himself  now  and  again  to  cast  long  glances 
at  the  clay  mound  where  he  was  forced  to  leave  the  re- 
mains of  the  being  in  and  by  whom  he  still  lived. 

''  How  miserably  she  lies  there  I  "  he  said. 


172  Ferragus, 

"But  she  is  not  there,"  said  Jacqiiet,  "she  is  in 
your  memory.  Come,  let  us  go ;  let  us  leave  this  odi- 
ous cemetery,  where  the  dead  are  adorned  like  women 
for  a  ball." 

"Suppose  we  take  her  away?" 

"  Can  it  be  done?  " 

"All  things  can  be  done!"  cried  Jules.  "So,  I 
shall  lie  there,"  he  added,  after  a  pause.  "There  is 
room  enough." 

Jacquet  finall}'  succeeded  in  getting  him  to  leave  the 
great  enclosure,  divided  like  a  chessboard  by  iron  rail- 
ings and  elegant  compartments,  in  which  were  tombs 
decorated  with  palms,  inscriptions,  and  tears  as  cold 
as  the  stones  on  which  sorrowing  hearts  had  caused 
to  be  carved  their  regrets  and  coats  of  arms.  Many 
good  words  are  there  engraved  in  black  letters,  epi- 
grams reproving  the  curious,  concetti,  wittil}'  turned 
farewells,  rendezvous  given  at  which  only  one  side 
appears,  pretentious  biographies,  glitter,  rubbish  and 
tinsel.  Here  the  floriated  thyrsus,  there  a  lance-head, 
farther  on  Egyptian  urns,  now  and  then  a  few  cannon  ; 
on  all  sides  the  emblems  of  professions,  and  every 
style  of  art,  —  Moorish,  Greek,  Gothic,  —  friezes,  ovules, 
paintings,  vases,  guardian-angels,  temples,  together 
with  innumerable  immortelles,  and  dead  rose-bushes. 
It  is  a  forlorn  comedy !  It  is  another  Paris,  with  its 
streets^  its  signs,  its  industries,  and  its  lodgings  ;   but 


Ferragus.  173 

a  Paris  seen  through  the  diminishing  end  of  an  opera- 
glass,  a  microscopic  Paris  reduced  to  the  littleness  of 
shadows,  spectres,  dead  men,  a  human  race  which  no 
longer  has  anj'thing  great  about  it,  except  its  vanit}'. 
There  Jules  saw  at  his  feet,  in  the  long  valley  of  the 
Seine,  between  the  slopes  of  Vaugirard  and  Meudon 
and  those  of  Belleville  and  Montmartre,  the  real  Paris, 
wrapped  in  a  mist}^  blue  veil  produced  b}'  smoke,  which 
the  sunlight  rendered  at  that  moment  diaphanous. 
He  glanced  with  a  constrained  eye  at  those  fort}'  thou- 
sand houses,  and  said,  pointing  to  the  space  comprised 
between  the  column  of  the  Place  Vendorae  and  the 
gilded  cupola  of  the  Invalides  :  — 

"  She  was  wrenched  from  me  there  bv  the  fatal  curi- 
osity of  that  world  which  excites  itself  and  meddles 
solely  for  excitement  and  occupation." 

Twelve  miles  from  where  they  were,  on  the  banks 
of  the  Seine,  in  a  modest  village  lying  on  the  slope  of 
a  hill  of  that  long  hilly  basin  in  the  middle  of  which 
great  Paris  stirs  like  a  child  in  its  cradle,  a  death 
scene  was  taking  place,  far  indeed  removed  from  Paris- 
ian pomps,  with  no  accompaniment  of  torches  or  tapers 
or  mourning-coaches,  without  pra3'ers  of  the  Church, 
in  short,  a  death  in  all  simplicity.  Here  are  the  facts : 
The  body  of  a  young  girl  was  found  earl}^  in  the  morn- 
ing, stranded  on  the  river-bank  in  the  slime  and  reeds 
of  the  Seine.     Men  emplo3'ed  in  dredging  sand  saw  it 


174  Ferragus. 

as  they  were  getting  into  their  frail  boat  on  their  way 
to  their  work. 

'•'•Tiens!   fifty  francs  earned!"  said  one  of  them. 

"True,"  said  the  other. 

The}'  approached  the  bod}'. 

"A  handsome  girl!  We  had  better  go  and  make 
our  statement." 

And  the  two  dredgers,  after  covering  the  body  with 
their  jacl^ets,  went  to  the  house  of  the  village  mayor, 
who  was  much  embarrassed  at  having  to  make  out  the 
legal  papers  necessitated  by  this  discovery. 

The  news  of  this  event  spread  with  the  telegraphic 
rapidity  peculiar  to  regions  where  social  communica- 
tions have  no  distractions,  where  gossip,  scandal,  cal- 
umny, in  short,  the  social  tale  which  feasts  the  world 
has  no  break  of  continuity  from  one  boundary  to  another. 
Before  long,  persons  arriving  at  the  mayor's  office  re- 
leased him  from  all  embarrassment.  They  were  able 
to  convert  the  proces-verbal  into  a  mere  certificate  of 
death,  by  recognizing  the  body  as  that  of  the  Demoi- 
selle Ida  Gruget,  corset-maker,  living  rue  de  la  Cor- 
derie-du-Temple,  number  14.  The  judiciary  police  of 
Paris  arrived,  and  the  mother,  bearing  her  daughter's 
last  letter.  Amid  the  mother's  moans,  a  doctor  certi- 
fied to  death  by  asphyxia,  through  the  injection  of 
black  blood  into  the  pulmonary  system, — which  set- 
tled the  matter.     The  inquest  over,  and   the  certificates 


Ferragus.  175 

signed,  b}'  six  o'clock  the  same  evening  anthorit}'  was 
given  to  l)ury  tlie  grisette.  Tlie  rector  of  the  parish, 
however,  refused  to  receive  her  into  the  church  or  to 
pray  for  her.  Ida  Gruget  was  therefore  wrapped  in  a 
shroud  by  an  old  peasant- woman,  put  into  a  common 
pine  coffin,  and  carried  to  the  village  cemeter}-  b}^  four 
men,  followed  by  a  few  inquisitive  peasant-women,  who 
talked  about  the  death  witli  wonder  mingled  with  some 
pity. 

The  widow  Gruget  was  charitably  taken  in  by  an 
old  lady  who  prevented  her  from  following  the  sad 
procession  of  her  daughter's  funeral.  A  man  of  triple 
functions,  the  bell-ringer,  beadle,  and  grave-digger  of  the 
parish,  had  dug  a  grave  in  the  half-acre  cemetery  be- 
hind the  church, — a  church  well-known,  a  classic 
church,  with  a  square  tower  and  pointed  roof  covered 
with  slate,  supported  on  the  outside  by  strong  corner 
buttresses.  Behind  the  apse  of  the  chancel,  lay  the 
cemeter}',  inclosed  with  a  dilapidated  wall,  —  a  little 
field  full  of  hillocks ;  no  marble  monuments,  no  vis- 
itors, but  surely  in  every  furrow,  tears  and  true  regrets, 
which  were  lacking  to  Ida  Gruget.  She  was  cast  into 
a  corner  full  of  tall  grass  and  brambles.  After  the  cof- 
fin had  been  laid  in  this  field,  so  poetic  in  its  simpli- 
cit}',  the  grave-digger  found  himself  alone,  for  night  was 
coming  on.  While  filling  the  grave,  he  stopped  now 
and  then  to  gaze  over  the    wall  along  the  road.     He 


176  Fcrragiis. 

was  standing  thus,   resting  on  bis  spade,  and  looking 
at  tlie  Seine,  wLiicli   had  brought  him   the  bod}'. 

"  Poor  girl !  "  cried  the  voice  of  a  man  who  suddenly 
appeared. 

''  How  3'ou  made  me  jump,  monsieur,"  said  tlie 
grave-digger. 

"  Was  any  service  held  over  the  body  you  are 
burjing? '' 

"No,  monsieur.  Monsieur  le  cure  w^as  n't  willing. 
This  is  the  first  person  buried  here  who  did  n't  belong 
to  the  parish.  P^ver^'body  knows  everybody  else  in  this 
place.     Does  monsieur  —     Wh}',  he  's  gone  !  " 

Some  da3's  had  elapsed  when  a  man  dressed  in  black 
called  at  the  house  of  Monsieur  Jules  Desmarets,  and 
without  asking  to  see  him  carried  up  to  the  chamber  of 
his  wife  a  large  porphyry  vase,  on  which  were  inscribed 
the  words  :  — 

In  VITA  Lege 

CONJUGI     MCEKENTI 
FlLIOL^   CiNERES 

Restituit 

AmICIS    XII.  JUVANTIBUS 

MoRiBUNDUs  Pater. 

"  What  a  man  !  "  cried  Jules,  bursting  into  tears. 
Eight   da^'s    sufficed    the   husband    to    obo}'    all    the 
wishes  of  his  wife,  and  to  arrange  his  own  affairs.     He 


Ferragus.  177 

sold  his  practice  to  a  brother  of  Martin  Falleix,  and 
left  Paris  while  the  authorities  were  still  discussing 
whether  it  was  lawful  for  a  citizen  to  dispose  of  the 
body  of  his  wife. 

Who  has  not  encountered  on  the  boulevards  of  Paris, 
at  the  turn  of  a  street,  or  beneath  the  arcades  of  the 
Palais-Royal,  or  in  any  part  of  the  world  where  chance 
may  offer  him  the  sight,  a  being,  man  or  woman,  at 
whose  aspect  a  thousand  confused  thoughts  spring  into 
his  mind  ?  At  that  sight  we  are  suddenly  interested, 
either  by  features  of  some  fantastic  conformation  which 
reveal  an  agitated  life,  or  by  a  singular  effect  of  the 
whole  person,  produced  by  gestures,  air,  gait,  clothes ; 
or  by  some  deep,  intense  look  ;  or  b}'  other  inexpressi- 
ble signs  which  seize  our  minds  suddenly  and  forcibl}'' 
without  our  being  able  to  explain  even  to  ourselves  the 
cause  of  our  emotion.  The  next  da}^  other  thoughts 
and  other  images  have  carried  out  of  sight  that  passing 
dream.  But  if  we  meet  the  same  personage  again, 
either  passing  at  some  fixed  hour,  like  the  clerk  of  a 
ma3'or's  office,  who  belongs  to  the  marriage  business  at 
eight  o'clock,  or  wandering  about  the  public  prome- 
nades, like  those  individuals  who  seem  to  be  a  sort  of 
furniture  of  the  streets  of  Paris,  and  who  are  always 
to  be  found  in  public  places,  at  first  representations  or 
noted  restaurants,  —  then  this  being  fastens  himself  or 

12 


178  Ferragus. 

herself  on  our  menior}',  and  remains  there  like  the  first 
volume  of  a  novel  the  end  of  which  is  lost.  We  are 
tempted  to  question  this  unknown  person,  and  say,  ''Who 
are  you  ?  "  "  Why  are  you  lounging  here  ?  "  ''  By  what 
right  do  3'ou  wear  that  pleated  ruffle,  that  faded  waist- 
coat, and  carr}'  that  cane  with  an  ivory  top ;  why  those 
blue  spectacles  ;  for  what  reason  do  you  cling  to  that 
cravat  of  a  dead  and  gone  fashion  ?  "  Among  these 
wandering  creations  some  belong  to  the  species  of  the 
Greek  Hermse  ;  the}'  say  nothing  to  the  soul ;  they  are 
there^  and  that  is  all.  Why?  is  known  to  none.  Such 
figures  are  a  type  of  those  used  by  sculptors  for  the 
four  Seasons,  for  Commerce,  for  Plent}',  etc.  Some 
others  —  former  law3'ers,  old  merchants,  elderly  gen- 
erals —  move  and  walk,  and  3'et  seem  stationarj'.  Like 
old  trees  that  are  half  uprooted  b}-  the  current  of  a 
river,  the}'  seem  never  to  take  part  in  the  torrent  of 
Paris,  with  its  5'outhful,  active  crowd.  It  is  impossible 
to  know  if  their  friends  have  forgotten  to  bury  them, 
or  whether  they  have  escaped  out  of  their  coffins.  At 
any  rate,  they  have  reached  the  condition  of  semi- 
fossils. 

One  of  these  Parisian  Melmoths  had  come  within  a 
few  days  into  a  neighborhood  of  sober,  quiet  people, 
who,  when  the  weather  is  fine,  are  invariabl}^  to  be 
found  in  the  space  which  lies  between  the  south  en- 
trance of  the  Luxembourg  and  the  north  entrance  of 


Ferragus.  179 

the  Observatoire,  —  a  space  without  a  name,  the  neutral 
space  of  Paris.  There,  Paris  is  no  longer ;  and  there, 
Paris  still  lingers.  The  spot  is  a  mingling  of  street, 
square,  boulevard,  fortification,  garden,  avenue,  high- 
road, province,  and  metropolis;  certainlj',  all  of  that  is 
to  be  found  there,  and  yet  the  place  is  nothing  of  all 
that,  —  it  is  a  desert.  Around  this  spot  without  a  name 
stand  the  Foundling  hospital,  the  Bourbe,  the  Cochin 
hospital,  the  Capucines,  the  hospital  La  Rochefoucauld, 
the  Deaf  and  Dumb  Asylum,  the  hospital  of  the  Val-de- 
Grace  ;  in  short,  all  the  vices  and  all  the  misfortunes  of 
Paris  find  their  as3'lum  there.  And  (that  nothing  may 
lack  in  this  philanthropic  centre)  Science  there  studies 
the  tides  and  longitudes.  Monsieur  de  Chateaubriand 
has  erected  the  Marie-Therese  Infirmary',  and  the  Car- 
melites have  founded  a  convent.  The  great  events 
of  life  are  represented  by  bells  which  ring  incessantly 
through  this  desert,  — for  the  mother  giving  birth,  for 
the  babe  that  is  born,  for  the  vice  that  succumbs,  for 
the  toiler  who  dies,  for  the  virgin  who  praj-s,  for  the 
old  man  shaking  with  cold,  for  genius  self-deluded. 
And  a  few  steps  off  is  the  cemeterj'  of  Mont-Parnasse, 
where,  hour  after  hour,  the  sorry  funerals  of  the  fau- 
bourg Saint-Marceau  wend  their  way.  This  esplanade, 
which  commands  a  view  of  Paris,  has  been  taken  pos- 
session of  by  bowl-players ;  it  is,  in  fact,  a  sort  of 
bowling-green  frequented  hy  old  graj^  faces,  belonging 


180  Ferragus. 

to  kindly,  worthy  men,  who  seem  to  continue  the  race 
of  our  ancestors,  whose  countenances  must  only  be 
compared  with  those  of  their  surroundings. 

The  man  who  had  become,  during  the  last  few  days, 
an  inhabitant  of  this  desert  region,  proved  an  assidu- 
ous attendant  at  these  games  of  bowls ;  and  must, 
undoubtedly,  be  considered  the  most  striking  creature 
of  these  various  groups,  who  (if  it  is  permissible  to 
liken  Parisians  to  the  different  orders  of  zoology)  be- 
longed to  the  genus  mollusk.  The  new-comer  kept 
sympathetic  step  with  the  cochonnet^  —  the  little  bowl 
which  serves  as  a  goal  and  on  which  the  interest  of 
the  game  must  centre.  He  leaned  against  a  tree  when 
the  codionnet  stopped ;  then,  with  the  same  attention 
that  a  dog  gives  to  his  masters  gestures,  he  looked  at 
the  other  bowls  flying  through  the  air,  or  rolling  along 
the  ground.  You  might  have  taken  him  for  the  weird 
and  watchful  genii  of  the  cochonnet.  He  said  nothing  ; 
and  the  bowl-players  —  the  most  fanatic  men  that  can 
be  encountered  among  the  sectarians  of  any  faith  — 
had  never  asked  the  reason  of  his  dogged  silence ;  in 
fact,  the  most  observing  of  them  thought  him  deaf  and 
dumb. 

When  it  happened  that  the  distances  between  the 
bowls  and  the  cochonnet  had  to  be  determined,  the  cane 
of  this  silent  being  was  used  as  a  measure,  the  pla3ers 
coming  up  and  taking  it  from  the  ic}'  hands  of  the  old 


Ferragus,  181 

man  and  returning  it  without  a  word  or  even  a  sign 
of  friendliness.  Tlie  loan  of  his  cane  seemed  a  servi- 
tude to  which  he  had  negatively  consented.  When  a 
shower  fell,  he  stayed  near  the  cochonnet^  the  slave  of 
the  bowls,  and  the  guardian  of  the  unfinished  game. 
Rain  affected  him  no  more  than  the  fine  weather  did ; 
he  was,  like  the  plaA'ers  themselves,  an  intermediary 
species  between  a  Parisian  who  has  the  lowest  intellect 
of  his  kind  and  an  animal  which  has  the  highest. 

In  other  respects,  pallid  and  shrunken,  indifferent 
to  his  own  person,  vacant  in  mind,  he  often  came 
bareheaded,  showing  his  sparse  white  hair,  and  his 
square,  j'ellow,  bald  skull,  like  the  knee  of  a  beggar 
seen  through  his  tattered  trousers.  His  mouth  was  half- 
open,  no  ideas  were  in  his  glance,  no  precise  object 
appeared  in  his  movements ;  he  never  smiled ;  he 
never  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven,  but  kept  them  habit- 
ually on  the  ground,  where  he  seemed  to  be  looking 
for  something.  At  four  o'clock  an  old  woman  arrived, 
to  take  him  Heaven  knows  where ;  which  she  did  b}'' 
towing  him  along  by  the  arm,  as  a  young  girl  drags  a 
wilful  goat  which  still  wants  to  browse  by  the  wayside. 
This  old  man  was  a  horrible  thing  to  see. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  day  when  Jules  Desmarets 
left  Paris,  his  travelling-carriage,  in  which  he  was 
alone,  passed  rapidly  through  the  rue  de  I'Est,  and 
came  out  upon  the  esplanade  of  the  Observatoire  at 


182  Ferragus. 

the  moment  when  the  old  man,  leaning  against  a  tree, 
had  allowed  his  cane  to  be  taken  from  his  hand  amid 
the  noisy  vociferations  of  the  pla3'ers,  pacifically  irri- 
tated. Jules,  thinking  that  he  recognized  that  face, 
felt  an  impulse  to  stop,  and  at  the  same  instant  the 
carriage  came  to  a  standstill ;  for  the  postilion,  hemmed 
in  by  some  handcarts,  had  too  much  respect  for  the 
game  to  call  upon  the  plaj'ers  to  make  way  for  him. 

"It  is  he!"  said  Jules,  beholding  in  that  human 
wreck,  Ferragus  XXIII.,  chief  of  the  Devorants.  Then, 
after  a  pause,  he  added,  ''How  he  loved  her! —  Go 
on,  postilion." 


THE   LAST   INCARNATION  OF  VAUTRIN. 
SCENES   FROM  PARISIAN  LIFE. 


THE 

LAST    INCARNATION    OF    YAUTRIN 


I. 

THE    TWO    GOWNS,    LEGAL    AND    FEMININE. 

*'What  is  the  matter,  Madeleine?"  said  Madame 
Camusot,  as  her  waiting-maid  entered  the  room  with 
the  air  that  servants  are  apt  to  assume  at  critical 
moments. 

'•Madame,"  replied  Madeleine,  "monsieur  has  just 
returned  from  the  Palais  looking  so  upset,  and  in  such 
a  state,  that  madame  had  better,  perhaps,  go  and  see 
him  in  his  stud}'." 

"  Did  he  sa}'  anything?"  asked  Madame  Camusot. 

"No,  madame;  but  none  of  us  ever  saw  him  look 
as  he  does  ;  you  'd  think  he  was  beginning  on  some 
illness  ;  he  is  yellow,  his  features  seem  all  distorted, 
and  —  " 

Without  waiting  to  hear  more,  Madame  Camusot 
darted  from  her  dressing-room,  and  ran  to  find  her 
husband.     She  found  thejuge  cVinstruction  [examin- 


186  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

ing  judge]  sitting  in  an  arm-chair,  his  legs  stretched 
out  before  him,  his  head  resting  on  the  back  of  the 
chair,  his  hands  hanging,  his  face  pale,  his  eyes  dull, 
precisely  as  though  he  were  about  to  swoon. 

"  What  is  it,  my  dear  friend  ?  "  cried  his  young  wife, 
terrified. 

"Ah  !  my  poor  Amelie,  such  a  fatal  event  has  hap- 
pened !  I  tremble  all  over.  Just  fancy,  the  attorney- 
general  —  no,  Madame  de  Serizy  —  that  is  —  I  don't 
know  where  to  begin." 

"Begin  at  the  end,"  said  Madame  Camusot. 

"Well,  at  the  very  moment  when,  in  the  Council 
chamber  of  the  Premiere,  Monsieur  Popinot  had  put 
the  last  signature  to  the  decree  of  non-lieu  rendered 
on  my  report,  which  would  have  set  Lucien  de  Rubem- 
pre  at  libert}^,  —  in  fact,  the  matter  was  all  finished,  the 
clerk  was  carrying  away  the  record-book,  and  I  was  feel- 
ing safe  out  of  the  whole  affair,  —  at  that  moment  the 
chief-justice  came  in  and  saw  the  papers.  '  You  are 
setting  at  liberty  a  dead  man,'  he  said.  '  Lucien  de 
Rubempre  has  gone,  td  use  Monsieur  de  Bonald's  ex- 
pression, before  his  natural  judge.  He  succumbed  to 
a  rush  of  blood  to  the  head,  an  apoplexy.'  I  breathed 
again,  believing  in  some  accident.  '  If  I  understand 
you,'  said  Monsieur  Popinot,  '  you  mean  an  apoplexy 
of  the  Pichegru  kind.'  'Messieurs,'  said  the  justice, 
'  remember,  if  you  please,  that  to  all  the  world  Lucien 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  187 

de  Ruberapre  died  of  the  rupture  of  an  aneurism.'  We 
looked  at  each  other.  '  Great  personages  are  mixed 
up  in  this  deplorable  affair.  God  grant  for  your  sake, 
Monsieur  Camusot,  that  Madame  de  Serizy  does  not 
go  mad  from  the  shock.  They  have  taken  her  home 
half-dead.  I  have  just  met  the  attorney-general,  who 
is  in  great  distress.  You  've  got  3'ourself  into  a  hot 
place,  Camusot,'  lie  whispered  in  m}'  ear.  My  dear 
Amelie,  as  I  left  the  council  chamber  I  could  hardl}^ 
walk.  My  legs  trembled  so  that  I  dared  not  trust 
myself  in  the  streets,  and  I  went  back  to  my  office 
to  rest  awhile.  Coquart,  who  was  sorting  the  papers 
of  that  wretched  examination,  told  me  that  a  hand- 
some woman  had  taken  the  Conciergerie  b}^  assault 
trying  to  save  Lucien,  and  that  when  she  saw  him 
hanging  by  his  cravat  from  a  window  in  the  Pistoles 
she  fainted  away.  The  idea  that  the  manner  in  which 
I  examined  that  young  man  —  who,  between  ourselves, 
was  undoubtedly  guilty  —  had  caused  his  suicide  has  so 
fastened  upon  me  from  the  moment  the  news  reached  me 
that  I  feel  like  fainting  away  mj'self  at  ever}'  instant." 

"Nonsense;  are  you  going  to  imagine  yourself  a 
murderer  because  an  accused  man  kills  himself  when 
3'ou  were  just  about  to  set  him  at  libert}^  ? "  cried 
Madame  Camusot.  "Why!  an  examining  judge  at 
such  times  is  like  a  general  who  has  a  horse  killed 
under  him,  that's  all." 


188  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

''  Such  comparisons,  my  clear,  are  only  good  as 
jests,  and  jesting  is  out  of  place  here.  The  dead  kills 
the  living  in  this  case.  Lucien's  coffin  carries  off  our 
hopes." 

"Oh  !  does  it?"  said  Madame  Camusot,  sarcastically. 

"Yes,  my  career  is  at  an  end.  I  shall  remain  all 
m}^  life  a  mere  judge  of  the  courts  of  the  Seine.  Mon- 
sieur de  Granville  was,  even  before  this  fatal  event, 
ver}'  much  dissatisfied  with  the  course  the  examination 
had  taken  ;  and  what  our  chief-justice  said  to  me  just 
now  proves  to  my  mind  that  so  long  as  Monsieur  de 
Granville  remains  attornej'-general,  there  will  be  no 
advancement  for  me." 

Advancement!  that  is  the  terrible  word,  the  idea, 
which  in  our  day  transforms  the  magistrate  into  a 
functionar}'. 

Formerly  the  magistrate  was  from  the  beginning  that 
which  he  was  to  continue  to  be.  The  three  or  four  judge- 
ships of  the  chamber  sufficed  for  all  ambitions  in  each 
parliament.  The  office  of  Councillor  satisfied  a  de  Brosse 
as  it  did  a  Mole,  as  well  at  Dijon  as  at  Paris.  This 
office,  a  fortune  in  itself,  required  a  great  fortune  to 
maintain  it.  In  Paris,  outside  of  the  Parliament,  men 
of  the  long  robe  could  aspire  to  only  three  distinguished 
positions :  those  of  comptroller-general,  keeper  of  the 
seals,  and  chancellor.  In  a  lower  sphere,  the  assistant 
judge  of  one  of  the  inferior  courts  thought  himself  a 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  189 

person  sufficiently  distinguished  to  be  willing  to  stay 
in  that  post  all  his  life.  Compare  the  position  of  a 
councillor  to  the  royal  court  of  Paris,  whose  only  for- 
tune in  1829  was  his  salary,  with  that  of  a  councillor 
to  the  Parliament  in  1729.  Great  is  the  difference! 
In  these  days  when  money  is  made  the  universal  social 
guarantee,  magistrates  are  released  from  the  obligation 
of  possessing,  as  in  former  times,  great  fortunes ;  the 
consequence  is  that  we  see  them  deputies,  peers  of 
France,  adding  office  to  office,  becoming  judges  and 
legislators,  and  borrowing  importance  from  positions 
other  than  those  from  which  alone  they  ought  to  derive 
their  fame. 

In  short,  magistrates  think,  in  these  da3's,  of  distin- 
guishing themselves  in  order  to  obtain  promotion,  as 
men  are  promoted  in  the  arm}'  or  in  diplomacy. 

This  thought,  if  it  does  not  injure  the  independence 
of  the  magistrate,  is  at  least  too  well-known,  and  its 
effects  are  too  plainly  seen,  not  to  cause  the  magistracy 
to  lose  its  majest}"  in  public  opinion.  The  salaries 
paid  by  the  State  make  government  employes  of  the 
priest  and  the  magistrate.  The  grades  to  be  attained 
develop  ambition,  ambition  begets  compliance  toward 
power ;  moreover,  modern  equality  puts  the  judge  and 
the  person  arraigned  on  the  same  social  level.  Conse- 
quently, the  two  great  columns  of  support  to  the  social 
order  —  religion  and  the  law  —  are  depreciated  in  this 


190  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

nineteenth  centuiy,  in  which  we  think  we  make  such 
progress  in  all  things. 

''And  pray,  why  shouldn't  3'ou  be  promoted?"  said 
Amelie  Camusot. 

She  looked  at  her  husband  with  a  satirical  air,  for 
she  felt  the  necessity  of  giving  energy  to  the  man  who 
bore  her  ambition  and  on  whom  she  was  accustomed 
to  play  like  an  instrument. 

"  Why  despair?"  she  continued,  with  a  gesture  that 
well  depicted  her  indifference  to  the  suicide  of  the  pris- 
oner. ''This  death  will  please  two  of  Lucien's  ene- 
mies, Madame  d'Espard  and  her  cousin,  Madame  du 
Chatelet.  Madame  d'Espard  is  on  the  best  of  terms 
with  the  Keeper  of  the  Seals.  You  can  obtain,  through 
her,  an  interview  with  his  Excellenc}^  and  tell  him, 
3'ourself,  the  secret  of  this  affair.  And  then,  if  the 
minister  of  Justice  is  on  j-our  side,  why  need  3"0u  fear 
your  own  chief-justice  or  the  attornej'-general  ? " 

"But  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Seriz}^  !"  cried  the 
poor  judge,  "Madame  de  Seriz}',  I  tell  j'ou,  has  gone 
mad,  —  and  gone  mad  through  my  blunder,  they  sa3\" 

"Well,  if  she  is  mad,  oh,  judge  of  no  judgment," 
said  Madame  Camusot,  laughing,  "  she  can't  do  3'ou 
an3'  harm.     Come,  tell  me  all  the  events  of  the  da3'." 

"Ah!"  replied  Camusot,  with  a  sigh,  "just  as  I 
had  finished  examining  the  3'oung  man,  and  had  got 
him   to   declare   that    the   Spanish   priest   was   really 


Tlie  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  191 

Jacques  Collin,  the  Duchesse  de  Maufrigneuse  and 
Madame  de  Seriz}'  sent  me,  by  a  footman,  a  little  note 
in  which  the}'  requested  me  not  to  examine  him.  But 
it  was  all  done." 

'^  Have  3'ou  lost  your  head?"  said  Amelie,  "Sure 
as  3'ou  are  of  your  clerk,  3'ou  might  have  called  back 
Lucien,  reassured  him,  and  altered  the  examination." 

"You  are  like  Madame  de  Seriz}- ;  that  would  be 
a  mockerv  of  justice,"  said  Camusot,  incapable  of  tri- 
fling with  his  profession.  "  Madame  de  Seriz}'  seized 
the  examination-papers,  and  threw  them  into  the  fire." 

"  Ah  !  bravo  !  there 's  a  woman  indeed  !  "  cried  Ma- 
dame Camusot. 

"Madame  de  Seriz}'  told  me  she  would  blow  up 
the  Palais  rather  than  let  a  young  man  who  had  stood 
well  in  her  good  graces  and  those  of  Madame  de  Mau- 
frigneuse sit  in  the  dock  at  the  court  of  assizes  beside 
a  galle3'-slave." 

"But,  Camusot,"  said  Amelie,  unable  to  repress  a 
smile  of  superiorit}-,  "3'our  position  is  superb." 

"  Ah  !  superb  indeed  !  " 

"  You  have  done  3'our  dut3\" 

"  Yes,  but  I've  done  it  unluckily,  and  in  spite  of 
the  Jesuitical  advice  of  Monsieur  de  Granville,  who  met 
on  the  Quai  Malaquais  —  " 

"This  morning?  " 

"Yes,  this  morning." 


192  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

"What  hour?" 

''Nine  o'clock.*' 

"  Oh  !  Camusot !  "  said  Amelie,  clasping  her  hands 
and  wringing  them,  "•  how  often  have  I  told  you  to  be 
careful  about  everything.  Good  heavens !  it  is  not  a 
man,  it  is  a  load  of  stone  I  drag  after  me.  But,  Cam- 
usot, don't  you  see  that  if  your  attorney-general  inter- 
cepted you,  it  was  because  he  had  something  he  wanted 
of  you?" 

"  Well,  yes." 

"And  you  didn't  understand  him!  If  you  are  so 
deaf  as  that,  you  will  certainly  stay  an  examining  judge 
without  examinations  all  the  rest  of  your  life.  Have 
the  sense  to  listen  to  me,"  she  said,  making  her  hus- 
band, who  began  to  answer  her,  hold  his  tongue.  "Do 
you  think  the  affair  ended?" 

Camusot  looked  at  his  wife  as  peasants  look  at  a 
juggler. 

"  If  the  Duchesse  de  Maufrigneuse  and  the  Comtesse 
de  Serizy  have  compromised  themselves  in  this  way," 
she  continued,  "  you  can  have  them  both  as  your  pro- 
tectresses. Let  us  consider.  Madame  d'Espard  will 
'obtain  for  you  an  audience  with  the  Keeper  of  the 
Seals ;  3'ou  will  tell  him  the  secrets  of  the  affair,  and 
he  will  amuse  the  King  with  them  ;  all  sovereigns  like 
to  see  the  other  side  of  the  tapestry,  and  know  the 
real  causes  of  the  events   the  public  gape   at.     From 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  193 

that  moment  neither  Monsieur  cle  Serizy  nor  the  attor- 
nev-s:eneral  need  be  feared." 

"  What  a  treasure  of  a  woman  you  are  !  "  cried  the 
judge,  recovering  a  Utile  courage,  "  After  all,  I  have 
ferreted  out  Jacques  Collin ;  1  '11  send  him  to  his  de- 
serts at  the  court  of  assizes  ;  I  'Jl  unmask  his  crimes. 
Such  an  affair  is  a  triumph  for  an  examining  judge." 

"  Camusot,"  said  Amelie,  pleased  to  see  her  husband 
recovering  from  the  mental  and  pM'sical  prostration 
Lucien's  suicide  had  caused  him,  "  the  chief-justice 
told  you  a  while  ago  that  you  were  in  a  hot  place,  but 
now  you  're  jumping  out  of  the  frying-pan  into  the  fire. 
My  dear  friend,  you  are  blundering  again." 

The  examining  judge  stood  bolt  upright  looking  at 
his  wife  in  a  sort  of  stupefaction. 

"The  King  and  the  Keeper  of  the  Seals,"  she  went 
on,  ''may  like  very  well  to  know  the  secrets  of  the 
affair,  and  at  the  same  time  be  much  displeased  if 
the  liberals  should  la}'  hold  of  the  matter  and  drag 
before  the  bar  of  public  opinion  and  the  court  of  as- 
sizes, names  of  such  importance  as  Serizy  and  Mau- 
frigneuse  and  Grandlieu,  —  in  short,  all  those  who  are 
involved  directly  or  indirectly  in  this  affair." 

"Ha!  they  are  all  in  it!  I  hold  them  in  the  palm 
of  my  hand  !  "  cried  Camusot.  He  got  up  and  stalked 
a;bout  his  study,  veiy  much  as  Sganarelle  does  on  the 
stage  when  lie  tries  to  get  out  of  a  scrape. 

13 


194  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

*'  Listen,  Amelie,"  he  continued,  placing  himself 
directl}'  in  front  of  his  wife.  "A  circumstance  recurs 
to  my  mind  which  seemed  of  slight  importance  at  the 
time,  but,  placed  as  I  now  am,  it  ma}'  be  of  vital  use 
to  me.  Recollect,  m}'  dearest,  that  this  Jacques  Collin 
is  a  colossus  of  shrewdness,  dissimulation,  and  trickery  ; 
a  man  of  profound  —  ah  !  what  shall  I  call  him  ?  —  he 's 
the  Cromwell  of  the  galleys !  I  never  in  ni}'  life  met 
with  such  a  knave  ;  he  almost  baffled  me !  But  in 
criminal  examinations  a  single  thread  which  you  hap- 
pen to  catch  sight  of  will  often  give  you  the  wiiole 
ball  by  which  to  find  youv  wa}'  through  the  laln'rinth 
of  the  darkest  consciences  or  the  best-concealed  facts. 
When  Jacques  Collin  saw  me  handling  the  letters  seized 
at  Lucien's  house,  the  rascal  gave  those  papers  the 
glance  of  a  man  who  wants  to  see  if  any  other  packet 
is  among  them,  and  he  made  a  motion  of  satisfaction. 
That  glance  of  a  criminal  looking  for  liis  treasure,  that 
gesture  which  said  '  I  still  hold  my  weapons,'  made  me 
understand  a  world  of  things.  There  are  none  but 
you  women  and  prisoners  and  ourselves  who  can,  in 
a  single  look,  express  whole  scenes  which  reveal  a 
complicated  deception,  like  the  key-words  of  a  safe. 
A  volume  of  suspicions  are  conceived  in  a  moment. 
It  is  terrible  ;  it  is  life  or  death  in  a  glance.  '  That 
fellow  has  other  letters  in  his  possession,'  thought  I. 
Then  the  other  points  of  the  affair  occupied  mj'  mind, 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vaiiti^in.  195 

and  I  forgot  the  incident ;  for  I  then  expected  to  con- 
front the  two  men,  and  clear  up  this  matter  later.  But 
we  ma}'  now  consider  it  as  certain  that  Jacques  Coilin 
has  put  in  some  safe  place,  as  these  wretches  alwa3s 
do,  the  most  compromising  letters  of  that  handsome 
3'outh  adored  by  so  —  " 

"And  you  tremble,  Camusot !  Why,  3'ou  will  be 
chief-justice  of  the  Royal  courts  far  sooner  than  I 
thought !  "  cried  Madame  Camusot,  her  face  radi- 
ant. "Let  us  consider;  you  must  act  in  a  wa}'  to 
satisf}'  everybod}',  for  the  affair  is  evidently  so  serious 
that  it  ma}'  be  stolen  from  us.  Did  n't  they  take  out  of 
Popinot's  hands  and  give  to  3'OU  the  proceedings  in  the 
case  of  the  injunction  applied  for  b}'  Madame  d'Espard 
against  her  husband? "  she  asked,  in  reply  to  a  gesture 
of  amazement  made  by  Camusot.  "  Well,  the  attornc}'- 
general,  who  takes  such  a  lively  interest  in  the  affairs 
of  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Serizv,  might  carry  the 
affair  before  the  Royal  courts,  and  put  it  into  the 
hands  of  a  counsellor  with  orders  to  make  a  fresh 
examination." 

"  All  ga !  my  dear,  where  did  you  pick  up  such 
knowledge  of  criminal  law?"  cried  Camusot.  "You 
know  all ;  you  are  my  master." 

"  Don't  you  know  that  to-morrow  morning  Monsieur 
de  Granville  will  be  alarmed  at  the  probable  action  of 
some  liberal  lawyer  whom  Jacques  Collin  will  have  no 


196  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin, 

difficult}'  in  securing?  You  may  be  sure  those  ladies 
know  their  danger  as  well,  or  even  better,  than  you. 
They  will  inform  the  attornej'-general,  wlio  is  already 
anxious  lest  the  names  of  these  great  families  should  be 
involved  with  that  of  a  galley-slave,  through  Lucien, 
the  betrothed  of  Mademoiselle  de  Grandlieu,  the  lover 
of  Esther,  the  friend  of  Madame  de  Maufrigneuse,  and 
the  cherished  darling  of  Madame  de  Serizy.  You  must 
manoeuvre  this  matter  in  a  way  to  conciliate  the  good- 
will of  the  attorney-general,  the  gratitude  of  Monsieur 
de  Seriz}',  that  of  Madame  d'Espard,  and  the  Comtesse 
du  Chatelet ;  and  at  the  same  time  you  must  strengthen 
tlie  protection  Madame  de  Maufrigneuse  alread}'  gives 
3'ou  with  that  of  the  house  of  Grandlieu.  As  for  me, 
I  '11  take  charge  of  the  Espard,  Maufrigneuse,  and 
Grandlieu  part  of  the  business.  You  must  go  to- 
morrow morning  earl}'  to  the  attorne3'-general.  Mon- 
sieur de  Granville  is  a  man  who,  they  tell  me,  does  n't 
live  with  his  wife,  he  has  a  mistress  ;  he  is  no  saint, 
but  a  man  like  all  the  rest ;  he  can  be  persuaded  and 
seduced  if  3'Ou  find  his  weak  spot.  Ask  him  for  ad- 
vice ;  show  him  the  danger  of  the  affair.  In  short,  try 
to  compromise  yourselves  in  compan}',  and  3'OU  will  —  " 
"  I  kiss  your  ver3'  footsteps !  "  cried  Camusot, 
interrupting  his  wife  to  catch  her  round  the  vraist  and 
press  her  to  his  heart.  "  Amelie,  you  have  saved 
me !  " 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  197 

"  It  was  I  who  towed  you  from  Alenyon  to  Mantes, 
and  from  Mantes  to  the  courts  of  the  Seine,"  rephed 
Amelie.  '^  AVell,  don't  be  uneasy;  I  mean  to  be  the 
wife  of  the  ehief-justice  in  five  3ears  fj-om  now  —  only, 
my  Uttle  man,  tliink,  and  think  long  before  30U  come  to 
decisions.  The  business  of  a  judge  is  not  that  of  a 
fireman  ;  the  flames  are  not  in  your  papers.  You  have 
time  enough  to  reflect ;  therefore,  in  such  a  position  as 
30urs,  blunders  are  inexcusable." 

•"  The  strength  of  my  present  position  lies  wholly  in 
the  identity  of  the  Spanish  priest  with  Jacques  Collin," 
said  the  judge,  after  a  long  pause.  "•  When  once  that 
identity  is  full}'  established,  even  though  the  Royal 
court  might  take  cognizance  of  the  case,  it  will  remain 
an  actual  fact,  the  credit  of  which  no  one  can  take 
away  from  me.  I  'm  like  the  children  who  tie  a  rattle 
to  the  cat's  tail ;  no  matter  where  the  case  is  tried, 
Jacques  Collin's  chains  will  always  clank." 

''  Bravo  !  "  said  Amelie. 

'^  Besides,  the  attorney-general  would  rather  come  to 
an  understanding  with  me  who  can  alone  lift  this  sword 
of  Damocles  from  those  heads  of  the  faubourg  Saint- 
Germain  than  with  any  other.  But  30U  don't  know 
how  difficult  it  will  be  to  bring  about  that  result.  Just 
now  the  attorney-general,  sitting  in  his  office,  agreed  to 
take  Jacques  Collin  for  what  he  claims  to  be,  —  a  canon 
of  the  Chapter  of  Toledo,  Don  Carlos  Herrera  ;  w'e  de- 


198  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

tcrmined  to  admit  his  status  as  a  diplomatic  envo}',  and 
to  allow  the  Spanish  embassy  to  have  him.  It  was  in 
consequence  of  this  agreement  that  I  released  Lucien 
de  Rubempre.  To-morrow  Messieurs  de  Rastignac 
and  Bianchon  were  to  be  confronted  with  the  so-called 
priest ;  but  they  would  not  have  recognized  Jacques 
Collin,  whose  last  arrest  took  place  in  their  presence 
ten  3'ears  ago,  in  a  common  boarding-house,  where  he 
went  by  the  name  of  Vautrin." 

Silence  reigned  for  a  few  moments  while  Madame 
Camusot  reflected. 

"Are  you  sure  that  he  is  Jacques  Collin?"  she 
asked. 

"Quite  sure,"  replied  the  judge,  "and  so  is  the 
attorne^^-general." 

"  Well,  then,  tr}^,  without  showing  the  claws  under 
your  fur,  to  filch  a  credit  from  the  Palais  de  Justice. 
If  your  convict  is  still  in  solitary  confinement,  go  im- 
mediatel}^  to  the  director  of  the  Conciergerie,  and  have 
him  publicly  identified.  Instead  of  imitating  children, 
imitate  the  ministers  of  police  in  despotic  countries, 
who  invent  conspiracies  against  their  sovereign  to  gain 
the  credit  of  defeating  them,  and  so  make  themselves 
necessary.  Put  the  three  families  in  danger,  in  order 
to  have  the  glory  of  saving  them." 

"  Ah,  what  luck  !  "  cried  Camusot;  "  my  head  was 
so  troubled  and  worried  that  I  forgot  that  circumstance. 


Tlie  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  199 

The  order  to  put  Jacques  Collin  in  the  Pistoles  was 
taken  b}'  Coquart  to  Monsieur  Gault,  the  director  of 
the  Conciergerie.  Now,  Bibi-Lupin,  Jacques  Collin's 
greatest  enemy,  has  transferred  three  criminals,  who 
know  him  well,  from  La  Force  to  the  Conciergerie. 
When  he  comes  down  to-morrow  into  the  jireau^  the 
yard  where  the  prisoners  take  their  exercise,  a  terrible 
scene  is  expected  to  take  place." 

*' Why  terrible?" 

*' Jacques  Collin,  m\' dear,  is  the  trusted  depositary 
of  the  fortunes  of  the  convicts  at  the  galleys,  which 
amount  to  a  considerable  sum  of  money.  He  has,  the}^ 
suspect,  wasted  them  upon  Lucien,  and  these  three 
men  will  call  him  to  account  for  it.  Bibi-Lupin  tells 
me  there  will  be  an  assault  upon  him  which  will  require 
the  interference  of  the  jailers,  and  the  truth  will  be 
discovered.  Jacques  Collin's  life  will  be  in  danger. 
By  going  to  the  Palais  very  early,  I  shall  be  able  to 
draw  up  the  report  of  his  identity  before  it-  is  general I3' 
known." 

"Ah!  if  his  comrades  relieve  you  of  him,  you  will 
be  thought  a  most  capable  man  !  Don't  go  to  see 
Monsieur  de  Granville ;  let  him  come  to  you.  Await 
him  with  that  formidable  weapon  in  your  hand.  It  is 
a  cannon  pointed  at  the  three  most  distinguished  fami- 
lies of  the  court  and  peerage.  Be  bold ;  propose  to 
Monsieur  de  Granville  to  rid  3'ou  of  Jacques  Collin  by 


200  The  Last  Iiicarnation  of  Vautrin. 

transferring  him  to  La  Force.  I  will  go  myself  to  the 
Ducbesse  de  MaiifrigoeLise  and  get  her  to  take  me  to 
the  Grandlieus.  Perhaps  I  shall  also  see  Monsieur  de 
Serizy.  Trust  to  me  to  ring  the  alarm  all  round. 
Write  me  a  line  to  let  me  know  the  moment  the  Span- 
ish priest  is  recognized  to  be  Jacques  Collin.  Arrange 
your  affairs  so  that  you  can  leave  the  Palais  at  any 
moment,  for  I  shall  get  an  appointment  for  you  with 
the  Keeper  of  the  Seals.  Perhaps  he  may  be  at  Madame 
d'Espard's." 

Camusot  stood,  planted  on  his  legs,  in  an  attitude  of 
admiration  which  made  his  clever  Amelie  smile. 

"  Come,  let's  go  to  dinner  and  be  gay!  "  she  said. 
''  See  !  we  have  been  only  two  years  in  Paris,  and  here 
you  are  on  the  high-road  to  be  a  councillor  in  a  few 
months.  Thence,  my  dear,  to  the  chief-justiceship 
there  is  but  the  distance  of  some  service  rendered  in 
a  political  matter." 

This  private  conference  shows  to  what  a  point  the 
actions  and  words  of  Jacques  Collin  affected  the  honor 
of  families  in  the  midst  of  whom  he  had  placed  and 
maintained  his  deceased  protege. 


The  Last  1  near tiat ion  of  Vautrin.  201 


11. 


THE     MAN     IN    SOLITARY    CONFINEMENT,    AND    IN    THE 
SOLITUDE    OF    HIS    SOUL. 

Lucien's  death  and  the  invasion  of  the  Concier2;erie 
b}'  Madame  de  Seiizy  had  produced  such  disturbance  to 
the  running-gear  of  that  machine  that  the  director  had 
forgotten  to  release  the  Spanish  priest  from  the  secret 
cells  and  place  him  in  tha  pistoles. 

Though  there  is  more  than  one  instance  in  judiciary" 
annals  of  the  death  of  an  accused  person  during  the 
preliminary  examination  of  a  case,  it  is  sufficiently  rare 
to  force  the  warders,  clerks,  and  the  director  himself, 
out  of  the  usual  calmness  with  which  \\\Qy  perform 
their  duties.  And  yet,  to  their  minds,  the  great  event 
was  not  that  a  fine  young  man  was  suddenl}'  a  corpse, 
but  that  a  wrought-iron  bar  at  their  gatewaj'  had  been 
broken  by  the  delicate  hands  of  a  fashionable  woman. 
No  sooner,  therefore,  had  the  attorn e3'-general,  Comte 
Octave  de  Bauvan,  and  the  Comte  de  Seriz}',  carried  off 
the  fainting  countess  in  the  latter's  carriage,  than  the 
director  and  all  his  assistants,  together  with  Monsieur 
Lebrun,  the  prison  doctor  (called  to  certify  the  young 
man's  death,  in  company  with  the   ''death  doctor"  of 


202  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

the  arrondissement  in   which  Lncieii  lived),   collected 
about  the  iron  gate  to  examine  it. 

We  ma}'  mention  here  that  in  Paris  the  "  death 
doctor "  is  a  physician  whose  business  it  is  in  each 
arrondissement  to  verify  all  deaths,  and  examine  into 
their  causes. 

With  the  rapidity  of  judgment  which  distinguished 
him.  Monsieur  de  Granville  had  seen  that  it  was  neces- 
sary', for  the  honor  of  the  three  families  concerned,  that 
Lucien's  death  should  be  certified  to  in  the  arrondisse- 
ment of  the  Quai  Malaquais,  where  he  had  lived  ;  and 
that  the  funeral  procession  should  proceed  from  his 
own  house  to  the  parish  church,  Saint-Germain  des 
Pres,  where  the  services  were  to  be  held.  Monsieur  de 
Chargebceuf,  Monsieur  de  Granville's  secretar}-,  sent  by 
him,  had  orders  to  that  effect.  The  removal  of  Lucien's 
bod}'  from  the  prison  to  his  late  home  was  to  take  place 
during  the  night.  To  all  the  world,  therefore,  Lucien 
would  seem  to  have  died  in  his  own  house,  where  his 
friends  were  invited  to  assemble  to  attend  his  funeral. 

Therefore,  at  the  moment  when  Camusot,  with  a 
mind  relieved,  was  sitting  down  to  table  with  his 
ambitious  better-half,  the  director  of  the  Conciergerie, 
the  prison  doctor,  and  the  death  doctor  were  standing 
outside  the  iron  railing,  deploring  the  fragilit}'  of  iron 
bars  and  discussing  the  extraordinary  strength  of  ner- 
vous women. 


Tlic  Last  TncarncUion  of  Vantrin.  203 

"  No  one  knows,"  said  the  prison  doctor  to  Mon- 
sieur Gault,  tlie  director,  "  what  amazing  nervous  force 
there  is  in  persons  violently  excited  by  passion.  Matli- 
eniatics  and  dynamics  are  without  signs  or  calculations 
by  which  to  estimate  that  force.  Only  3esterda3'  I 
was  witness  of  a  magnetic  experiment  which  made  me 
shudder,  and  which  explains  to  a  certain  extent  the 
extraordinarv'  physical  power  displayed  b}'  that  little 
woman." 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  said  Monsieur  Gault,  "for  I 
have  the  weakness  to  be  much  interested  in  magnet- 
ism without  believing  in  it;  I  must  sa}'  it  puzzles  me." 

**  A  magnetizing  physician,  for  we  have  men  in  the 
facult}'  who  believe  in  magnetism,"  continued  Monsieur 
Lebrun,  "proposed  to  experiment  on  me  a  phenome- 
non which  he  described  and  w4iich  I  doubted.  Curious 
to  see  in  m}'  own  person  one  of  those  strange  nervous 
crises,  b}'  which  they  prove  the  existence  of  magnet- 
ism, I  consented.  This  is  what  happened,  —  and  I 
should  like  to  know  what  the  Academy  of  Medicine 
would  sa3',  if  each  member,  one  after  the  other,  sub- 
mitted his  limbs  to  an  influence  which  left  no  possible 
chance  for  incredulity.  My  old  friend  —  But  I  should 
tell  5'ou,"  said  Doctor  Lebrun,  beginning  a  parenthesis, 
"  that  this  doctor  is  an  old  man,  persecuted  b}'  the 
Facult}'  for  his  opinions,  which  are  those  of  Mesmer. 
He  is  over  seventy  years  of  age,  and  his  name  is  Bou- 


204  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

varcl.  He  may  be  called  the  patriarch  of  the  doctrine 
of  animal  magnetism.  I  am  like  a  son  to  the  old  man, 
and  I  owe  ni}'  profession  to  him.  So,  then,  this  worthy 
Bouvai'd  proposed  to  prove  to  me  that  the  nervous 
force  called  into  action  by  a  magnetizer  is  not  infinite, 
for  man  is  ruled  by  definite  laws,  but  that  it  proceeds 
from  forces  of  nature  whose  essential  principles  escape 
calculation.  'If,'  he  said  to  me,  'you  are  willing  to 
put  your  hand  into  the  grasp  of  a  somnambulist  who 
in  her  waking  state  has  not  the  strength  to  squeeze 
beyond  a  certain  appreciable  force,  3^ou  will  find  that  in 
the  condition  foolishly'  called  somnambulic,  her  fingers 
have  the  facult}^  of  acting  like  the  nippers  of  a  lock- 
smith.' Well,  monsieur,  when  I  did  give  my  wrist  into 
the  grasp  of  a  woman,  not  asleej),  —  Bouvard  objects 
to  that  expression,  —  but  isolated^  and  wiien  the  old 
man  told  her  to  press  my  wrist  with  all  her  force,  I 
was  compelled  to  beg  her  to  release  me,  for  the  blood 
was  beginning  to  burst  from  my  fingers'  ends.  Here, 
look  at  the  bracelet  I  shall  wear  for  the  next  three 
months." 

"The  deuce!"  cried  Monsieur  Gault,  looking  at  a 
circular  discoloration  ver}'  much  like  that  produced  b}' 
a  burn. 

"My  dear  Gault,"  said  the  doctor,  "if  I  had  had 
m}'  flesh  held  in  an  iron  band  which  was  tightened  b\' 
the  vise  of  a  locksmith,  I  could    not   have   felt  that 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  205 

metal  circle  more  severeh'  than  I  did  the  fingers  of  that 
woman.  Her  grasj)  was  that  of  steel,  and  I  am  con- 
vinced she  could  iiave  crushed  the  bones  and  have  sep- 
arated the  hand  from  the  wrist.  This  pressure  began 
in  an  almost  imperceptible  manner,  continued  without 
relaxing  to  gather  force,  until  at  last  a  tourniquet  could 
have  had  no  closer  grip  than  the  woman's  hand  thus 
changed  into  an  instrument  of  torture.  It  seems  to 
me  to  prove  that,  under  the  empire  of  passion,  which 
is  will  concentrated  on  one  point  and  attaining  to  in- 
calculable volumes  of  animal  strength  (as  do  all  tlie 
various  species  of  electrical  powers),  it  proves,  I  sa}', 
that  man  can  bring  his  whole  vitality,  either  for  attack 
or  for  resistance,  into  any  given  organ.  That  little 
woman  had,  under  the  pressure  of  despair,  put  her 
whole  vital  strength  into  her  wrists." 

"  It  takes  a  devilish  deal  to  break  an  iron  bar,''  said 
the  head  jailer,  shaking  his  head. 

"There  must  have  been  a  straw  in  it,"  remarked 
Monsieur  Gault. 

'•As  for  me,"  said  the  doctor,  "  I  no  longer  venture 
to  assign  limits  to  nervous  force.  It  is  that  b}'  which 
mothers  to  save  their  cliildren  magnetize  lions,  or  go 
through  flames,  or  walk  on  ridge-poles  where  cats  can 
hardl}'  crawl,  and  bear  the  tortures  of  a  difficult  child- 
birth. In  it  is  the  secret  of  attempts  made  b}'  pris- 
oners and  convicts  to  rcixaiu  their  libertv.     I  tell  vou 


206  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

no  one  yet  knows  the  ultimate  reach  of  the  vital  forces  ; 
they  share  tlie  power  of  Nature  herself,  and  we  draw 
from  them  as  from  hidden  reservoirs." 

"  Monsieur,"  said  a  warder,  whispering  in  the  direc- 
tor's ear,  as  he  was  about  to  accompan}'  the  doctor  to 
the  outer  gate  of  the  Conciergerie,  "  Number  Two,  in 
the  solitaries,  says  lie  is  ill,  and  wants  the  doctor.  He 
pretends  he  is  dying,"  added  the  man. 

"  Is  it  true?  "  asked  the  director. 

"  Well,  his  throat  rattles." 

"It  is  five  o'clock,  and  I've  not  dined,"  said  the 
doctor.  "  However,  here  I  am  on  the  spot;  come,  let 
us  go  to  him." 

"  Number  Two,  in  the  solitaries,  is  tiiat  very  Spanisli 
priest  suspected  of  being  Jacques  Collin,"  said  the 
director  to  the  doctor.  "  He  is  one  of  the  accused 
persons  in  the  affair  in  which  that  poor  3'oung  man 
was  implicated." 

"I  saw  liim  this  morning,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Mon- 
sieur Camusot  sent  for  me  to  examine  the  physical 
condition  of  the  fellow,  who,  between  ourselves,  is  per- 
fectl}'  well,  and  might  make  his  fortune  as  a  Hercules 
among  a  troop  of  acrobats." 

"He  may  be  trying  to  kill  himself,"  said  Monsieur 
Gault.  "  Como,  let  us  both  go  to  the  sohtaries  ;  in 
fact,  I  ought  to  go  and  transfer  the  man  to  the  pistoles. 
Monsieur  Camusot  lias  released  this  sin2;ular  nonde- 
script  from  close  confinement." 


Tfie  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  207 

Jacques  Collin,  nicknamed  Trompe-la-Mort  in  the 
world  of  the  galleys,  and  to  whom  we  shall  henceforth 
give  no  other  name  than  his  own,  had  been,  from  the 
moment  of  his  re-incarceration  by  Camusot's  order,  in 
the  grasp  of  an  anxiety  he  had  never  before  known  in 
the  course  of  a  life  marked  b}'  man}'  crimes,  by  three 
escapes  from  the  galleys,  and  two  sentences  in  the 
court  of  assizes.  This  man,  in  whom  the  life,  force, 
mind,  and  passions  of  the  galle3's  are  summed  up,  who 
presents  the  ver}'  highest  expression  of  that  under- 
world, was  yet  astonishingh'  fine  in  his  attachment, 
worth}'  of  the  canine  race,  to  the  being  he  had  made  his 
friend.  Infamous,  horrible,  and  deserving  of  condem- 
nation on  all  sides,  this  absolute  devotion  to  his  idol 
does  render  him  so  truly  interesting  that  our  stud}' of  his 
past  career  would  be  unfinished,  incomplete,  if  the  de- 
nouement of  this  criminal  existence  did  not  follow  that 
of  Lucien  de  Rubempre.  The  little  spaniel  dead,  we 
cannot  but  ask  ourselves  what  became  of  his  terrible 
companion,  the  lion. 

In  real  life,  as  in  social  life,  facts  are  so  fatally  inter- 
locked with  other  facts  that  none  can  be  taken  and  the 
others  left.  The  water  of  a  river  forms  a  species  of 
liquid  floor ;  there  is  no  flood,  however  raging  it  may 
be,  to  whatever  height  it  may  rise,  whose  foaming 
crests  w^ill  not  sink  beneath  the  volume  of  the  water, 
which  is  stronger  in  the  rapidity  of  its  course  than  the 


208  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vaiitrin. 

rebellious  whirlpools  which  it  meets  and  sweeps  away. 
Perhaps  it  is  desirable  to  consider  the  pressure  of  the 
Social  power  on  that  whirlpool  called  Vautrin,  to  note 
the  spot  at  which  the  rebel  vortex  sank,  and  learn 
the  end  of  a  man  who  was  trul}^  diabolical,  and  yet  was 
fastened  to  humanity  by  love,  —  so  hard  is  it  for  that 
sacred  principle  to  perish,  even  in  a  gangrened  heart. 

The  ignoble  convict,  in  materializing  the  poetic  idea 
wooed  b}^  so  many  poets,  by  Moore,  B3'ron,  Mathurin, 
Canalis  (that  of  a  demon  possessing  an  angel  drawn  to 
hell  to  refresh  him  with  the  dews  of  paradise), —  Jacques 
Collin,  if  we  have  really  penetrated  that  heart  of  iron, 
had  renounced  self  for  seven  years  past.  His  powerful 
faculties,  absorbed  in  Lucien,  were  exercised  for  Lucien 
only  ;  he  lived  in  his  progress,  his  loves,  his  ambition. 
For  him,  Lucien  was  his  visible  soul. 

Trompe-la-Mort  dined  at  the  Grandlieus,  glided  into 
the  boudoir  of  great  ladies,  loved  Esther,  vicariously. 
He  saw  in  Lucien  a  Jacques  Collin,  young,  beautiful, 
noble,  attaining  to  the  rank  of  an  ambassador. 

Trompe-la-Mort  had  realized  the  German  supersti- 
tion of  the  Double  through  a  phenomenon  of  mental 
paternit}'  which  will  be  understood  by  those  w^omen 
who  in  the  course  of  their  lives  having  loved  truly 
have  felt  their  soul  passing  into  tlie  soul  of  the  man 
they  loved  ;  who  have  lived  of  his  life,  noble  or  infa- 
mous,   happ3'    or   unhapp}',    obscure    or   famous ;    who 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  209 

have  felt,  in  spite  of  distance,  a  pain  in  their  leg  if  his 
was  wounded  ;  and  who,  to  sum  all  up,  have  no  need 
to  hear  that  he  has  proved  unfaithful  in  order  to 
know  it. 

When  returned  to  his  solitary-  cell,  Jacques  Collin's 
thought  was :  — 

"  They  are  questioning  the  young  one !  " 

He  shuddered,  —  he  who  could  strike  as  another  man 
drinks. 

*'  Has  he  seen  those  women?  Will  the}-  warn  him? 
Has  my  aunt  been  able  to  find  those  damned  females? 
Those  duchesses,  those  countesses,  have  they  taken 
proper  steps?  Have  the}'  stopped  the  examination? 
Has  Lucien  received  my  letter?  If  fate  wills  that  he 
be  examined,  how  will  he  carry  himselj  f  Ah,  poor 
boy  !  it  is  I  who  have  brought  him  to  this  !  That  brig- 
and of  a  Paccard,  and  that  sneak  Europe,  got  us  into 
this  mess  bv  filching  the  seven  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  francs  which  Nucingen  gave  Esther.  Those 
villains  knocked  us  over  at  the  ver}'  last  step  ;  but 
the}"  '11  pa}'  dear  for  it !  One  day  more,  and  Lucien 
was  rich,  and  married  to  Clotilde  de  Grandlieu.  Esther 
was  no  longei'  in  my  way.  Lucien  loved  that  girl  too 
well,  and  there  's  no  loving  a  sheet-anchor  like  Clotilde. 
Ah  !  the  young  one  would  then  have  been  all  mine. 
And  now,  only  to  think  that  our  fate  depends  on  a 
look,  on  a  tinge  of  color  in  Lucien's  face  before  that 

U 


210  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

Camusot,  who  sees  all,  and,  fool  as  he  is,  has  tlie  sl^'- 
ness  of  a  judge.  I  saw  the  look  he  gave  me  when  I 
glanced  at  those  letters ;  he  detected  that  I  could 
expose  those  women  if  I  chose." 

And  so  the  monologue  went  on  for  three  hours.  The 
agony  was  so  great  that  it  got  the  better  of  that  crea- 
ture of  iron  and  vitriol.  Jacques  Collin,  whose  brain 
was  fired  almost  to  madness,  felt  such  devouring  thirst 
that  he  drank,  without  observing  that  he  did  so,  all  the 
water  contained  in  two  buckets,  which,  with  a  wooden 
bedstead,  form  the  whole  furniture  of  a  solitarj'-cell. 

"If  he  loses  his  head,  what  will  become  of  him? 
For  the  poor  bo}^  has  n't  the  force  of  a  Theodore  !  "  he 
thought,  as  he  flung  himself  on  the  camp  bedstead, 
which  was  like  that  of  a  guard-room. 

One  word  here  about  this  Theodore  whom  Jacques 
Collin  remembered  in  this  crucial  moment.  Theodore 
Calvi,  a  young  Corsican,  condemned  to  the  galle3's  for 
life,  for  eleven  murders  before  he  was  eighteen  3'ears 
of  age,  thanks  to  certain  influence  purchased  with  gold, 
had  been  Jacques  Collin's  chain  companion  in  1819 
and  1820.  The  last  escape  of  Jacques  Collin,  one  of 
his  ablest  performances  (he  left  the  gallej^s  dressed  as 
a  gendarme  conducting  Theodore  Calvi  as  a  prisoner 
before  the  commissary),  had  taken  place  at  Rochefort 
where  the  convicts  die  in  shoals,  and  where  the  author- 
ities hoped  these  two  dangerous  characters  would  soon 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  211 

end  their  daN's.  Escaping  together,  the}'  were  forced 
to  separate  immediatel}'.  Theodore,  recaptured,  was 
returned  to  the  gallejs.  Jacques  Collin,  after  reach- 
ing Spain  and  transforming  himself  into  Carlos  Herrera, 
was  on  his  way  back  to  Paris,  when  he  met  Lucien  on 
the  banks  of  the  Charente. 

Life  with  Lucien,  a  3'outh  free  of  all  criminality, 
who  had  only  peccadilloes  on  his  conscience,  rose  to 
the  mind  of  the  escaping  convict  like  the  sun  of  a  sum- 
mer's da}' ;  whereas,  with  Theodore,  Jacques  Collin 
could  see  no  other  ending  but  the  scaffold,  after  a 
series  of  inevitable  crimes. 

The  idea  of  some  misfortune  caused  b}^  Lucien's 
weakness,  who  was  likel}'  to  lose  his  head  under  the 
trial  of  solitary  confinement,  took  enormous  propor- 
tions in  Jacques  Collin's  brain.  Dwelling  on  the  pos- 
sibilit}'  of  a  catastrophe,  his  eyes  filled  witli  tears,  —  a 
phenomenon,  which  since  his  infanc}'  had  never  been 
genuinel}'  produced  in  him. 

"  I  've  a  horse-fever  on  me,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  and 
perhaps,  if  I  get  the  doctor  here  and  offer  him  a  round 
sum,  lie  will  help  me  to  communicate  with  Lucien." 

Just  then  the  jailer  brought  in  his  dinner. 

"It  is  useless,  my  lad,"  he  said  ;  "I  can't  eat.  Tell 
the  director  of  this  prison  to  send  me  the  doctor ;  I 
feel  so  ill  that  I  think  my  last  hour  has  come." 

Hearing  the  guttural  sounds  of  a  rattle,  with  which 


212  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

the  convict  accompanied  these  words,  the  jailer  nodded 
liis  head  and  went  awa}'.  Jacques  Collin  fastened 
madly  upon  this  hope  ;  but  when  he  saw  the  doctor 
enter  his  cell  accompanied  hy  the  director,  he  felt  that 
his  scheme  had  miscarried,  and  coldl}'  awaited  the  re- 
sult of  the  visit,  holding  out  his  pulse  to  the  doctor. 

"  Monsieur  has  a  fever,"  said  the  doctor,  to  Monsieur 
Gault,  "  but  it  is  the  fever  we  find  in  nearly  all  accused 
persons,  and  wdiich,"  he  whispered  in  the  ear  of  the 
false  priest,  "is  to  me  the  sign  of  some  guilt." 

At  this  moment  the  director,  to  whom  the  attorne}''- 
general  had  given  the  letter  written  b}'  Lucien  to 
Jacques  Collin  for  transmission  to  the  latter,  left  the 
cell  to  get  it,  leaving  the  doctor  with  the  prisoner,  in 
charge  of  the  jailer. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Jacques  Collin  to  the  doctor,  see- 
ing the  jailer  outside  the  door,  and  being  unable  to 
explain  to  himself  the  departure  of  the  director,  "  I 
should  n't  consider  a  matter  of  thirty  thousand  francs, 
if  I  could  be  enabled  to  send  five  lines  to  Lucien  de 
Rubempre." 

"  I  will  not  steal  3'our  money,"  replied  the  doctor, 
"No  one  on  earth  can  communicate  with  that  young 
man." 

"No  one?  "  said  Jacques  Collin,  bewildered.  "Why 
not?" 

"  Because  he  has  hanged  himself." 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  213 

Never  tigress  robbed  of  her  cubs  made  the  jungle 
of  India  resound  with  a  more  awful  cry  than  that  which 
burst  from  Jacques  ColUn.  He  rose  to  his  feet  as  the 
tigress  on  her  paws,  and  cast  a  flaming  look  upon  the 
doctor  like  the  lightning  when  it  strikes,  then  sud- 
denly he  dropped  back  upon  the  camp-bed,  saying, 
"Oh!   my  son!  " 

"  Poor  man!  "  exclaimed  the  doctor,  moved  b3'  this 
terrible  struggle  of  nature. 

In  truth,  that  explosion  was  followed  by  such  com- 
plete prostration  that  the  words  "  Oh  !  my  son  !  "  were 
like  a  murmur. 

"Is  he,  too,  going  to  shp  through  our  fingers?" 
asked  the  jailer. 

"It  is  not  possible,"  said  Jacques  Collin,  raising 
himself  and  looking  at  the  two  witnesses  of  tliis  scene 
with  an  eye  without  flame  or  warmth.  "  You  are  mis- 
taken, it  was  not  he.  You  saw  wrong.  A  man  can- 
not hang  himself  in  sohtary  confinement.  Look  !  could 
I  hang  myself  here?  All  Paris  shall  answer  to  me  for 
that  life?     God  owes  it  to  me  !  " 

The  jailer  and  the  doctor  were  bewildered  in  their 
turn,  —  the}',  whom  nothing  for  many  a  3-ear  had  been 
able  to  surprise.  Monsieur  Gault  came  in,  holding 
Lucien's  letter  in  his  hand.  On  seeing  the  director, 
Jacques  Collin,  exhausted  by  tiie  violence  of  that  ex- 
plosion of  grief,  seemed  to  calm  himself. 


214  Tlhc  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

"  Here  is  a  letter  which  the  attorney-general  charged 
me  to  give  3'ou  ;  he  allows  3'ou  to  receive  it  unopened," 
said  Monsieur  Gault. 

''  Is  it  from  Lucien?  asked  Jacques  Collin. 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

"  That  proves  that  this  3'oung  man  —  " 

"Is  dead,"  said  the  director.  "Even  if  the  phj'si- 
cian  had  been  on  the  spot  he  could  not  have  saved 
bim.  The  young  man  is  dead,  there,  —  in  one  of  the 
pistoles.^' 

"  May  I  see  him  with  my  own  e^-es?  "  asked  Jacques 
Collin,  timidly.  "Will  you  give  a  father  freedom  to 
mourn  his  son?  " 

"  Yes  ;  you  ma}',  if  you  like,  take  his  room.  I  have 
orders  to  transfer  you  to  one  of  the  ^nstoles;  you  are 
no  longer  in  solitary  confinement,  monsieur." 

The  prisoner's  eyes,  devoid  of  warmth  and  life, 
moved  slowly  from  the  director  to  the  doctor.  Jacques 
Collin  questioned  them  ;  he  seemed  to  fear  some  trap, 
and  liesitated  to  leave  the  cell. 

"  If  you  wish  to  see  the  body,"  said  the  doctor, 
"  you  have  no  time  to  lose.  It  is  to  be  removed  to- 
night." 

"  If  3'ou  have  children,  messieurs,"  said  Jacques 
Collin,  "  3'ou  will  comprehend  m}^  imbecility.  I  can 
hardh'  see.  The  blow  is  to  me  far  more  than  death ; 
but  3'ou  cannot  knovv  what  I  mean.     You  are  not  fath- 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vantrin,  215 

ers,  or  if  you  are,  onl}'  in  one  waj' ;  I  am  a  motlierj 
too.     I,  I  am  mad,  —  I  feel  it." 

B3'  following  passages  the  inflexible  doors  of  which 
open  only  for  the  director,  it  is  possible  to  go  in  a  very 
short  time  from  the  solitary-ceils  to  the  x^^^toles.  Tiie 
two  lines  of  cells  are  separated  b}'  a  subterranean  cor- 
ridor, formed  b}-  two  thick  walls  which  support  the 
arches  on  which  the  galler}'  of  the  Palais  de  Justice, 
called  the  Galerie  Marchande,  rests.  So  that  Jacques 
Collin,  accompanied  by  the  jailer,  who  took  him  b}'  the 
arm,  preceded  by  the  director  and  followed  b}-  the  doc- 
tor, was  onh'  a  few  moments  in  reaching  the  cell  where 
Luclen  la}'.     They  had  placed  him  on  a  bed. 

At  the  sight,  the  convict  fell  upon  the  bod}',  clinging 
to  it  with  a  grip  of  despair,  the  strength  and  pas- 
sionate movement  of  which  made  the  three  spectators 
shudder. 

"  There,"  said  the  doctor,  in  a  low  voice  to  the 
director,  "  is  an  example  of  what  I  was  sa3'ing  to  j'ou. 
See  !  the  man  will  crush  that  bod}^  and  you  know  what 
a  dead  body  is  ;  it  is  stone." 

"  Leave  me  here,"  said  Jacques  Collin,  in  a  voice 
that  was  almost  extinct.  "  I  haA'e  not  long  to  see  him  ; 
the}'  will  take  him  from  me  to  —  " 

He  stopped,  unable  to  say  "  bury." 

"  You  will  let  me  keep  something  of  my  dear  child? 
Have  the  kindness,  monsieur,"  he  said  to  the  doctor, 


216  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vaiitrin. 

"  to  cut  me,  yourself,  a  few  locks  of  his  hair,  for  I 
cannot." 

"  Surely  that  must  be  his  son,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  I  doubt  it,"  said  the  director,  with  a  thoughtful  air 
which  threw  the  doctor  into  a  revery. 

The  director  told  the  jailer  to  leave  the  prisoner 
alone  in  the  cell,  and  to  cut  off  some  locks  of  liair 
from  the  young  man's  head  before  the  body  was 
removed. 

At  half-[)ast  five  o'clock  in  the  month  of  May  it  is 
easy  to  read  a  letter  in  the  Conciergerie,  even  behind 
the  bars  and  iron  network  which  darken  the  windows. 
There,  Jacques  Collin,  holding  Lucien's  hand,  read  that 
terrible  letter. 

No  man  has  been  found  who  could  hold  a  piece  of 
ice  in  his  hand,  grasping  it  in  his  palm,  for  ten  min- 
utes. Its  cold  would  affect  the  sources  of  life  with 
deadly  rapidity.  But  the  effect  of  such  terrible  cold, 
acting  like  a  poison,  is  scarcely  comparable  to  that 
produced  upon  tlie  soul  by  the  stiff  and  ic}^  hand  of 
a  corpse  held  in  the  same  wa}'.  Death  speaks  then 
to  Life ;  it  tells  black  secrets,  which  kill  many 
feelings.  And  to  change  our  feelings,  is  not  that  to 
die? 

As  we  re-read,  with  Jacques  Collin,  Lucien's  letter, 
it  will  be  seen  what  it  was  to  this  man,  —  a  cup  of 
poison :  — 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  VaiUrin.  217 

To  the  Ahbe  Carlos  Ilerrera  : 

My  dear  Abbi^,  —  I  have  received  nothing  but  bene- 
fits from  you  and  I  have  betrayed  you.  This  involuntary 
ingratitude  kills  me,  and  when  you  read  these  lines  I  shall 
no  longer  exist,  —  you  are  no  longer  here  to  save  me. 

You  gave  me  full  right,  in  case  I  found  an  advantage 
in  it,  to  sacrifice  you,  and  throw  you  away  like  the  end  of 
a  cigar;  but  I  have  sacrificed  you  foolishly.  To  get  my- 
self out  of  difficulty,  misled  by  the  captious  questioning 
of  the  examining  judge,  I,  your  spiritual  son,  whom  you 
adopted,  went  over  to  the  side  of  those  wlio  wish  at  any 
cost  to  destroy  you  by  discovering  an  identity  (which  I 
know  to  be  impossible)  between  you  and  a  French  criminal. 
All  is  over. 

Between  a  man  of  your  power  and  me,  of  whom  you  have 
tried  to  make  a  greater  person  than  I  could  be,  there  should 
be  no  silly  sentiment  at  the  moment  of  our  final  parting. 
You  have  wished  to  make  me  powerful  and  famous  ;  you 
have  flung  me  into  the  gulf  of  suicide  —  that  is  all.  I  have 
long  seen  its  vertigo  approaching  me. 

There  is,  as  you  once  said,  a  j)osterity  of  Cain,  and  one  of 
Abel.  Cain,  in  the  grand  drama  of  humanity,  is  Opposi- 
tion. You  are  descended  from  Adam  by  that  line,  into  which 
the  devil  has  continued  to  blow  his  flame,  the  first  sparks 
of  which  were  cast  on  Eve.  Among  the  demons  of  this 
descent  some  appear,  from  time  to  time,  of  terrible  vigor, 
of  vast  organization,  combining  all  human  forces,  and  re- 
sembling those  rampant  animals  of  the  desert  whose  life 
requires  the  great  spaces  in  which  they  are  found.  These 
men  are  dangerous  to  society,  as  lions  would  be  dangerous 
in  Normandy  :  they  must  have  food  ;  they  devour  common 
men,  and  suck  the  gold  of  fools  ;   even  tlieir  games  are  so 


218  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

perilous  that  they  end  by  killing  the  poor  dog  of  whom 
they  make  a  companion,  an  idol.  When  God  wills  It,  these 
mysterious  beings  are  named  Moses,  Attila,  Charlemagne, 
Robespierre,  Napoleon ;  but  when  he  lets  a  generation  of 
these  gigantic  instruments  rust  in  the  depths  of  ocean  they 
are  nothing  more  than  Pugatcheff,  Fouche,  Louvel,  and 
Carlos  Herrera.  Gifted  with  a  mighty  power  over  tender 
souls,  they  attract  and  knead  them.  'T  is  grand,  't  is  fine 
in  its  way;  'tis  the  poisonous  plant  with  glowing  colors 
that  entices  children  in  a  wood ;  't  is  the  poesy  of  Evil. 
Men  like  you  should  live  in  lairs  and  never  leave  them. 
You  made  me  live  within  the  circle  of  this  stupendous  life, 
and  I  have  had  my  fill  of  existence.  Therefore  I  withdraw 
my  head  from  the  Gordian  knot  of  your  policy  to  fasten  it 
in  the  running  noose  of  my  cravat. 

To  repair  my  fault,  I  transmit  to  the  attorney-general  a 
formal  retractation  of  my  testimony.  You  will  see  to  its 
being  of  service  to  you. 

In  pursuance  of  my  will  you  will  receive.  Monsieur  I'abbe, 
the  sums  belonging  to  your  Order  which  you  spent,  most 
imprudently,  on  me,  in  consequence  of  the  paternal  affection 
you  have  always  shown  me. 

Farewell,  then,  farewell,  grandiose  statue  of  Evil  and  cor- 
ruption ;  farewell,  you,  who  in  the  j)ath  of  Good  would  have 
been  greater  than  Ximenes,  greater  than  Richelieu.  You 
have  kept  your  promises ;  I  find  myself  once  more  on  the 
banks  of  the  Charente,  after  owing  to  you  the  enchantments 
of  a  dream ;  but,  unfo\'tunately,  it  is  not  the  river  of  mine 
own  country  in  which  I  was  about  to  drown  the  peccadilloes 
of  my  youth,  —  it  is  the  Seine,  and  my  pool  is  a  cell  in  the 
Conciergerie. 

Do  not  regret  me.  My  contempt  for  you  is  equal  to  my 
admiration.  Lucien. 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  219 

At  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  they  came  to 
remove  the  body,  Jacques  Collin  was  found  kneeling 
beside  Lucien's  bed,  the  letter  on  the  floor  beside  him, 
dropped,  no  doubt,  as  the  suicide  drops  the  pistol 
which  has  killed  him  ;  but  the  miserable  man  was  still 
holding  the  stiffened  hand  of  him  he  had  loved  so  well ; 
he  held  it  pressed  between  his  own  clasped  hands,  and 
was  praying  God. 

When  they  saw  him  thus,  the  jailers  stopped  for  an 
instant ;  he  i-esembled  one  of  those  stone  figures  kneel- 
ing for  eternit}'  on  the  tombs  of  the  middle  ages.  The 
man,  with  eyes  as  clear  as  those  of  tigers,  and  rigid 
with  an  awful  immobilit}',  so  impressed  the  minds  of 
those  men  that  the}'  asked  him  gentl}-  to  rise. 

"  Why?"  he  said,  timidly.  The  audacious  Trompe- 
la-Mort  had  become  as  humble  as  a  little  child. 

The  director  showed  this  sight  to  Monsieur  de  Charge- 
boeuf,  who,  filled  with  respect  for  such  a  sorrow,  ex- 
plained to  the  prisoner  Monsieur  de  Granville's  orders 
relating  to  the  funeral  services  and  the  interment,  adding 
that  it  was  essential  to  transfer  the  body  to  Lucien's 
home  on  the  Quai  Malaquais,  where  the  clergy  were 
then  assembled  to  watch  it  for  the  rest  of  the  night. 

"  I  recognize  his  great  soul  in  that,"  said  the  con- 
vict, in  a  sad  voice.  "Tell  him,  monsieur,  that  he 
may  count  upon  my  gratitude.  Yes,  I  am  able  to  ren- 
der him  oreat  services.     Do  not  forget  those  words ; 


220  The  Last  Incarnation  of  VoMtrin. 

they  are,  to  him,  of  imich  importance.  Ah!  monsieur, 
there  come  strange  changes  in  the  lioart  of  a  man  when 
he  lias  wept  for  seven  hours  over  a  child  hi\e  that. 
I  shall  never  see  him  again  !  " 

Looking  once  more  at  Lucien  with  the  e3'es  of  a 
mother  from  whom  the}'  are  rending  her  son,  Jacques 
Collin  sank  back  upon  himself.  As  he  watched  them 
take  the  bod}-,  so  dreadful  a  moan  escaped  his  breast 
that  the  porters  hastened  to  be  gone. 

The  secretary  of  the  attorne3-general  and  tiie  director 
of  the  prison  had  already  withdrawn  from  the  painful 
sight. 

What  had  become  of  that  iron  nature  in  which  de- 
cision and  resolution  equalled  the  glance  of  those  eyes 
in  rapidit}' ;  in  whom  thought  and  action  sprang  forth 
with  a  single  flash ;  whose  nerves,  inured  by  three 
escapes,  three  periods  at  the  galleys,  had  attained  to 
the  metallic  strength  of  the  nerves  of  savages?  Iron 
yields  to  reiterated  striking,  or  to  a  certain  continu- 
ance of  pressure ;  its  impenetrable  molecules,  purified 
bj'  man  and  made  homogeneous,  segregate,  and,  with- 
out being  in  fusion,  the  metal  has  not  the  same  power 
of  resistance.  Blacksmiths,  locksmiths,  tool-makers, 
all  men  who  work  constantly  in  this  metal,  express  that 
condition  by  a  technical  word.  "  The  iron  is  retted," 
the}'  sa}',  appropriating  a  term  which  belongs  properl}' 
to  flax  or  hemp,  the  fibre  of  which  is  disintegrated  by 


Ik^  LsM  Imariimtiism  &f  lis '..:'"'. "/.  -21 

rettiiiig.  Well,  the  hamsm  soal,  or,  if  joa  dioose  to 
say  sos  tb«  triple  energy  of  body,  he^aurt,  and  mincl^  is 
fmtnd  in  at  cooditioa  anaJogons  to  tbat  of  iron  as  iJhe 
result  of  repeated  sbodks.  It  is  tben  ^ilJb  men  as  it  is 
witBi  flax  or  iron:  they  arte  ** retted.**  Seienee,  the 
law,  and  the  pnlilie,  attribate  a  huiMlr«d  eaoses  tx>  some 
terrible  catastrophe  on  a  railway  by  the  rapture  of  an 
iron  bar,  as  in  that  terrible  e3:amp]le  at  Bellevne ;  bul 
no  one  pays  attention  to  the  trae  experts  in  this  mat- 
ter^ the  smiths,  who  all  employ  the  same  expression, 
""^  The  iron  was  retted."  This  danger  cannot  be  fore- 
seen. The  metal  lodks  the  same,  be  it  disintegrating, 
or  be  it  resistant. 

It  is  in  this  state  that  confessors  and  examining 
judges  often  find  great  criminals.  The  terrible  emo- 
tions caused  by  the  court  of  arizes  and  by  the  ^'^  toi- 
lette '^  almc^t  always  bring  even  the  strongest  natures 
to  what  may  be  called  a  dislocation  of  the  nervous  sys- 
tem. Confessions  escape  the  lips  till  then  most  firmly 
closed ;  the  stoutest  hearts  give  way,  and  this  — 
strange  fact!  —  at  the  moment  when  confession  be- 
comes useless,,  when  this  sudden  weakness  merely  tears 
from  the  guilty  man  the  mask  of  innocence  by  which 
he  disturbs  the  mind  of  justice,  for  that  is  always  uneasy 
when  the  condemned  man  dies  without  confession. 

^sipoleon  experienced  this  dissolution  of  all  human 
forces  at  Waterioo. 


222  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 


III. 


THE  PREAU  OF  THE  CONCIERGERIE,  WITH  AN  ESSAY  PHIL- 
OSOPHIC, LINGUISTIC,  AND  LITERARY,  ON  THIEVES* 
LATIN   AND   THIEVES. 

At  eight  in  the  morning,  when  the  warder  of  the 
pistoles  entei'ed  the  room  where  Jacques  Collin  was 
now  confined,  he  found  him  pale  and  calm,  like  a 
man  who  had  recovered  strength  through  some  violent 
determination. 

"  This  is  the  hour  for  exercise,"  said  the  jailer. 
"  You  have  been  shut  up  for  three  days  ;  if  3'ou  would 
like  to  get  some  air,  and  walk  in  the  preau^  you  can 
do  so." 

Jacques  Collin,  absorbed  in  his  thoughts,  taking  no 
interest  in  himself,  regarding  himself  as  a  garment 
without  a  body,  as  a  rag,  did  not  suspect  the  snare 
set  for  him  by  Bibi-Lupin,  nor  the  vital  consequences 
of  his  appearance  in  the  preau.  The  unhappy  man  left 
his  cell  mechanically,  and  passed  along  the  corridor 
which  skirts  the  cells  that  are  built  into  the  cornice  of 
the  splendid  arcades  of  the  palace  of  the  kings  of 
France,  on  which  rests  the  so-called  gallery  of  Saint- 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  223 

Louis.  This  corridor  joins  tliat  of  the  pistoles  ;  and  it 
is  a  circumstance  not  unworthy  of  remark  tliat  the  cell 
in  which  Louvel,  the  murderer  of  the  Due  de  Berrj-, 
was  confined,  is  situated  in  the  angle  formed  by  the 
junction  of  the  two  corridors.  Under  the  pretty  office 
in  the  Tour  Bonbec  is  a  corkscrew  staircase  by  which 
the  prisoners  in  all  these  cells  go  and  come  to  and  from 
the  preau. 

All  accused  persons,  also  indicted  persons  who  are 
waiting  for  trial  before  the  court  of  assizes,  and  those 
who  have  already  appeared  there,  in  short,  all  the  pris- 
oners in  the  Conciergerie,  except  those  in  solitar}*  con- 
finement, walk  in  this  narrow  unpaved  space  for  several 
hours  of  the  day,  and  more  particularly  in  the  early 
summer  mornings.  This  yard,  the  antechamber  to  the 
scaffold  or  the  galleys,  leads  to  those  institutions  at 
one  end,  Mobile  at  the  other  it  is  still  connected  with 
social  existence  through  the  gendarme,  the  office  of 
the  examining  judge,  and  the  court  of  assizes.  It 
is  even  more  petrifying  to  behold  than  the  scaffold. 
The  scaffold  may  be  a  pedestal  from  which  to  rise 
to  heaven  ;  but  the  preau  is  all  the  infamies  of  earth 
united,  and  with  no  outlet ! 

The  2^^'eaii  is  a  preau,  whether  it  be  that  of  La  Force, 
or  Poissy,  or  Melun,  or  Sainte-Pelagie.  Its  facts  are 
Identicall}'  the  same,  even  to  the  color  of  the  walls, 
their  height,  and  the   space  inclosed.     This  study  of 


224  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vaittrin. 

Parisian  customs  would  be  incomplete  without  a  more 
exact  description  of  this  species  of  Pandemonium. 

Under  the  strong  arches  which  support  the  Chamber 
of  the  Court  of  Appeals  is  (at  the  fourth  arch)  a  stone 
which,  it  is  said,  served  Saint-Louis  as  a  table  from 
which  to  distribute  alms,  but  which  in  our  day  is  used 
as  a  stand,  at  which  are  sold  certain  supplies  to  the 
prisoners.  Therefore,  as  soon  as  the  preau  is  opened  in 
the  morning,  the  latter  all  group  themselves  about  this 
stone  of  luxuries  such  as  brand}',  rum,  and  eatables. 

The  first  two  arches  on  this  side  of  the  preau  (which 
faces  the  magnificent  B3'zantine  gallerj',  sole  remains 
of  the  palace  of  Saint-Louis)  are  occupied  b}'  the  parlor 
where  prisoners  and  their  lawyers  maj'  confer.  This 
parlor,  placed  at  the  end  of  the  immense  entrance  hall 
of  the  Conciergerie  and  lighted  from  the  preau  by 
recessed  windows  high  above  the  floor,  has  lately  been 
supplied  with  other  windows  opening  to  the  entrance- 
hall,  so  that  the  conferences  which  take  place  in  that 
parlor  may  be  watched.  This  innovation  was  rendered 
necessary  b}^  the  cajoleries  practised  by  certain  pretty 
women  on  their  legal  defenders.  In  this  room  take 
place  such  interviews  as  police  regulations  permit  be- 
tween prisoners  and  their  friends. 

We  can  now  imagine  what  the  preau  must  be  to  the 
two  hundred  prisoners  of  the  Conciergerie  :  it  is  their 
garden, — a  garden  without  trees,  or  earth,  or  flowers, 


The  Last  I iicariiation  of  Vautrin.  225 

but  still,  their  place  of  relaxation,  their  preau.  The 
gratings  of  the  parlor,  and  the  stone  of  Saint-Louis 
constitute  their  onh'  possible  communication  with  the 
outer  world. 

The  moments  spent  in  the  2^^eau  are  the  only  ones  dur- 
ing which  the  prisoners  can  have  fresh  air  and  compan}'. 
In  other  prisons  the  men  are  collected  in  workshops, 
but  in  the  Conciergerie  the}'  are  not  allowed  an}'  occu- 
pation, unless  they  are  in  the  j^^^toles ;  and  there,  the 
drama  of  the  court  of  assizes  usually  preoccupies  their 
mind,  for  the}'  are  only  placed  there  while  undergoing 
examination  or  awaiting  sentence. 

This  yard  presents  a  horrifying  spectacle  ;  it  cannot 
be  imagined,  —  it  must  be  seen.  In  the  first  place,  we 
find,  in  a  space  about  one  hundred  and  thirty  feet  long 
by  one  hundred  feet  wide,  over  one  hundred  individuals 
either  suspected  or  indicted  criminals,  who  are  therefore 
not  the  elite  of  society.  These  miserable  creatures, 
who,  for  the  most  part,  belong  to  the  lowest  classes, 
are  badly  clothed  and  their  countenances  are  ignoble  or 
shocking ;  a  criminal  from  the  upper  social  classes  is 
happily  seldom  seen  here.  Peculation,  forgery,  or 
fraudulent  bankruptcy,  the  only  crimes  which  would 
bring  the  upper  classes  to  the  Conciergerie  are  confined 
in  the  pistoles,  and  such  prisoners  seldom  or  never 
choose  to  leave  their  cells. 

This  place  of  exercise,   enclosed  by  noble   and  for- 

15 


226  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

midable  black  walls  with  fortified  towers  on  the  quay, 
watched  b}-  careful  keepers,  and  occupied  b}'  a  throng 
of  ignoble  criminals,  all  distrustful  of  one  another,  is 
sad  enough  to  glance  at  superficially,  but  it  is  terri- 
fying when  3'on  fnid  yourself  the  centre  of  looks  of 
hatred,  curiosit}',  despair,  as  3'ou  stand  face  to  face 
with  those  dishonored  beings.  No  joy  there  !  all  is 
gloom}',  the  place  and  its  inhabitants  ;  all  is  silent, 
walls  and  consciences.  All  is  peril  to  these  unfortu- 
nates ;  the}^  dare  not  trust  each  other,  —  unless  it  be 
through  friendships  as  sinister  as  the  galleys  of  which 
they  are  the  product.  The  police,  known  to  be  ever 
near,  corrupt  the  atmosphere  and  poison  all  things  to 
their  minds,  even  the  pressure  of  a  fellow-convict's 
hand.  The  criminal  who  meets  an  accomplice  is  igno- 
rant whether  the  latter  has  not  confessed  in  secret  to 
escape  his  own  penalty.  This  lack  of  security,  this 
fear  of  the  niouton  spoils  the  already  too  treacherous  lib- 
erty of  the  preau^     In  prison  argot,  the  mouton  [sheep] 

1  The  difficulty  of  rendering  this  chapter  in  English  is  great. 
It  cannot  be  translated.  The  following  method  is  therefore  em- 
ployed. The  word  argot  is  left  in  the  French,  because  the  word, 
"  slang,"  does  not  do  it  justice ;  in  the  present  connection  "  thieves' 
latin,"  is  its  best  equivalent.  Argot  is  a  language  of  expression  ; 
keenly  intelligent,  filll  of  meaning  and  experience.  Where  its 
meaning  can  be  given  by  a  literal,  word-for-word  translation  into 
English,  this  has  been  done.  In  other  places  tlie  French  Avords 
have  been  left.  No  attempt  lias  been  made  to  render  French 
argot  in  its  equivalent  of  English  slang.     A  dictionary  of  argot  is 


Tlie  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  227 

is  a  sp3',  who  appears  there  under  the  accusation  of 
some  dangerous  crime,  and  whose  aim  it  is  to  be  taken 
for  an  ami  [friend].  The  word  ami  signifies  in  argot 
a  robber  emeritus,  a  consummate  thief,  who  has 
long  broken  with  societ}',  who  means  to  be  a  thief  all 
his  hfe,  and  to  remain  faithful  under  all  circumstances 
to  the  laws  of  the  haute  iiegre.  Pegre  is  the  caste  of 
thieves.  It  is  divided  into  two  classes,  the  haute  and 
the  basse  pkjre.  The  first  is  an  association  of  the 
oldest  and  most  accomplished  criminals ;  they  commit 
none  but  great  robberies  and  despise  ordinary  thieves. 

Crime  and  madness  have  a  certain  similitude.  Ob- 
serving prisoners  of  the  Conciergerie  in  the  preau^  and 
observing  patients  in  the  garden  of  an  insane  asylum, 
are  much  the  same  thing.  The}'  all  avoid  each  other  as 
the}'  walk  about ;  the}'  cast  glances  that  are  strange  or 
ferocious,  according  to  the  thoughts  in  their  minds  at 
the  moment,  but  never  gay  or  earnest ;  they  either 
know  or  they  fear  one  another.  The  expectation  of 
a  conviction,  anxiety,  possibly  remorse,  give  to  these 
denizens  of  a  2weau  the  uneasy,  haggard  look  of  mad- 
men. Consummate  criminals  alone  have  an  assured 
manner  which  resembles  the  tranquillity  of  an  honest 
life  and  the  sincerity  of  a  pure  conscience. 

very  amusing  and  instructive  reading  ;  such  as  the  "  Dictionnaire 
Historique  d'Argot,"  par  M.  Lore'dan  Larchej,  derniere  edition, 
E.  Dentu,  Paris.  —  Tr. 


228  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

A  man  of  the  middle  and  upper  classes  being  an 
exception  (shame  retaining  in  their  cells  those  whom 
crime  has  sent  there),  it  follows  that  the  occupants  of 
WiQ  preau  are  usually  dressed  as  w^orking-men.  Blouses, 
linen  caps,  and  velveteen  jackets  predominate.  These 
coarse  or  dirty  costumes,  in  keeping  with  the  common 
or  threatening  faces  and  the  brutal  manners  (somewhat 
cowed,  perhaps,  b}'  the  gloom}*  thoughts  that  assail  all 
prisoners,  even  the  silence  of  the  place),  do  their  share 
in  striking  terror  or  disgust  to  the  mind  of  the  visitor 
for  whom  some  high  influence  has  obtained  the  very 
rare  privilege  of  studying  the  Conciergerie  on  the  spot. 

Just  as  the  sight  of  a  museum  of  anatom}',  where 
loathsome  diseases  are  represented  in  wax,  has  brought 
young  men  to  resolutions  of  chastit}',  so  the  sight  of 
the  Conciergerie  and  the  aspect  of  the^j^r^^a^,  swarming 
with  guests  doomed  to  the  scaffold,  the  galleys,  or 
some  other  degrading  punishment,  inspires  fear  of 
human  justice  in  those  w^ho  do  not  dread  divine  jus- 
tice however  loudly  it  may  speak  to  the  conscience. 
Such  persons  issue  from  that  sight  honest  men,  and 
sta}'  so  for  a  long  time. 

As  several  of  the  criminals  in  the  preau  at  the  mo- 
ment when  Jacques  Collin  came  down  to  it  are  the 
actors  in  a  crucial  scene  in  Trompe-la-Mort's  life,  it  is 
not  superfluous  to  describe  a  few  of  the  principal  figures 
of  this  terrible  assemblage. 


The  Last  1  iicar nation  of  Vaiitrin.  229 

There,  as  everywhere  that  men  congregate,  there, 
as  in  schools  and  colleges,  reigns  physical  force,  and 
mental  and  moral  force.  There,  too,  as  at  the  galley's, 
criminality'  forms  the  aristocracy.  He  whose  head  is  in 
danger  takes  precedence  of  all  the  rest.  The^^reai^r,  as 
we  can  readily  believe,  is  the  criminal's  law-school ;  it 
is  even  a  court  where  cases  are  tried.  An  occasional 
amusement  consists  in  acting  over  again  a  drama  of 
the  court  of  assizes,  with  judge  and  jury,  an  official  of 
the  State,  and  lawTers,  ending  with  a  verdict  on  the 
case.  This  horrible  farce  is  almost  always  played  on 
the  occasion  of  a  celebrated  crime.  At  the  present 
moment  a  great  criminal  trial  w^as  going  on  before  the 
court  of  assizes,  —  namely,  the  shocking  murder  of  a 
couple  named  Crottat,  formei'ly  farmers,  the  father  and 
mother  of  the  notary  of  that  name,  who  were  hoarding, 
as  this  horrible  affair  proved,  over  eight  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  in  gold. 

One  of  the  persons  concerned  in  this  two-fold  mur- 
der was  the  celebrated  Dannepont,  otherwise  called  La 
Pouraille,  a  released  galW-slave,  who  for  the  last  five 
3'ears  had  escaped  the  most  active  police  search  fur 
fresh  crimes,  thanks  to  seven  or  eight  aliases,  and  as 
many  different  lives.  The  disguises  of  this  villain 
were  so  perfect  that  he  even  underwent,  without  dis- 
covery, two  years'  imprisonment  in  the  name  of  Del- 
souq,  one  of  his  pupils,  a  celebrated  thief,  who  never, 


230  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

in  his  many  crimes,  got  be3-ond  the  jurisdiction  of  the 
correctional  police.  La  Pouraille  was  now,  five  years 
after  his  release  from  the  galleys,  at  his  third  murder. 
The  certainty  of  his  condemnation  to  death,  not  less 
than  his  reputed  possession  of  enormous  boot}',  made 
this  man  an  object  of  awe  and  admiration  to  the  other 
prisoners  ;  for  not  one  penny  of  the  stolen  money  had 
been  recovered.  The  reader  will  doubtless  remember, 
in  spite  of  the  public  events  of  Jul}',  1830,  the  excite- 
ment caused  in  Paris  by  this  bold  crime,  comparable 
only  to  the  theft  of  the  coins  of  the  Bibliotheque,  —  in 
public  estimation,  at  least,  for  the  unfortunate  tendency 
of  our  day  is  to  measure  crime  by  the  amount  of  the 
money  stolen. 

La  Pouraille,  a  spare  and  lean  little  man,  with  a 
weasel  face,  about  forty-five  years  of  age,  a  celebrity 
in  each  of  the  three  srallevs  which  he  had  inhabited 
successively  from  the  time  he  was  nineteen  years  old, 
knew  Jacques  Collin  intimately,  and  we  shall  presently 
explain  why.  Transferred  from  La  Force  to  the  Con- 
ciergerie  with  La  Pouraille  on  the  previous  day  were 
two  other  former  galley-slaves,  who  had  instantly  rec- 
ognized and  made  known  in  the  premi  the  dangerous 
royalty  of  this  ami  foredoomed  to  the  scaffold.  One  of 
these  convicts,  a  released  galley-slave  named  Selerier, 
alias  I'Auvergnat,  le  Pere  Palleau,  le  Rouleur,  but 
known  to  the  society  of  the  haute  pegre  as  Fil-de-Soie, 


The  Lcifit  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  231 

a  nickname  due  to  the  cleverness  with  which  he  could 
slip  out  of  the  dangers  of  his  profession,  was  also  one 
of  Trompe-la-Mort's  former  comrades.  But  Trompe-la- 
Mort  had  suspected  him  of  plaj-ing  a  double  part,  of 
being  in  the  counsels  of  the  haute  xiegre  and  also  in  the 
emplo}'  of  the  police,  so  that  he  attributed  his  own 
arrest  in  1819,  at  the  Maison  Vauquer,  to  this  man. 
(See  Pere  Goriot.)  Selerier,  whom  we  will  call  Fil- 
de-Soie,  as  we  shall  call  Dannepont  La  Pouraille,  was 
implicated  in  certain  robberies,  in  which,  however,  no 
blood  had  been  shed ;  he  was  about,  in  all  probabilit}', 
to  be  returned  to  the  galleys  on  a  twenty  years'  sen- 
tence. The  third  convict,  named  Riganson,  formed, 
with  his  concubine,  called  La  Biffe,  one  of  the  most 
redoubtable  households  of  the  haute  plgre.  Riganson, 
whose  relations  with  law  and  justice  had  been  delicate 
from  his  earliest  years,  was  commonly  known  as  Le 
Biffon.     Le  Biffon  was  the  male  of  La  Biffe. 

A  digression  is  here  necessary ;  for  Jacques  Collin's 
entrance  into  the  j)rean^  his  appearance  in  the  midst 
of  his  enemies,  so  cleverly  arranged  b}'  Bibi^Lupin  at 
the  instigation  of  the  examining-judge,  and  the  curious 
scenes  which  came  of  it,  would  be  incomprehensible  to 
the  reader  without  certain  explanations  on  the  world 
of  the  galleys,  its  laws,  its  customs, —  above  all,  its  lan- 
guage, the  dreadful  poesy  of  which  is  an  indispensable 
feature  of  this  portion  of  our  tale.     First,  therefore,  a 


232  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrln. 

few  words  on  the  language  of  sharpers,  swindlers, 
thieves,  and  murderers,  called  argot,  which  literature 
has  employed  of  late  with  such  success  that  several 
words  of  this  strange  vocabular}'  have  been  heard 
from  the  ros}'  lips  of  beautiful  women,  beneath  silken 
curtains,  delighting  the  ears  of  princes,  more  than  one 
of  whom  has  owned  himself  ^oz/e  (cheated  at  cards). 
Let  us  say  here,  perhaps  to  the  astonishment  of  many, 
that  there  is  no  language  more  energetic,  more  highly 
colored,  than  that  of  the  subterranean  world,  which, 
from  the  origin  of  empires  and  chief  cities,  ferments  in 
cellars,  abysmal  depths,  the  "third-floor-under,"  —  to 
borrow  from  dramatic  art  a  lively  and  striking  ex- 
pression. Is  not  all  the  world  a  stage?  The  "third- 
floor-under"  is  the  lowest  cellar  beneath  the  boards  of 
the  Opera-house,  where  they  put  away  machiner}',  lad- 
ders, apparitions,  and  the  devils  who  vomit  hell. 

Each  word  of  this  language  presents  an  image  of 
some  kind,  —  brutal,  ingenious,  or  terrible.  Men  do 
not  sleep  in  argot,  the}^  pionce.  Remark  with  what 
precision  that  word  expresses  the  peculiar  sleep  of  the 
hunted,  wear}',  defiant  beast  called  robber;  who,  the 
instant  he  is  in  safet}',  falls  into  the  depths  of  needed 
sleep,  but  always  under  the  wings  of  the  suspicion  that 
hovers  over  him.  Horrible  sleep  !  —  like  that  of  the  wild 
animal  that  slumbers  and  snores  while  its  ears  are  ever 
prudentl}'  awake. 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  233 

All  is  descriptive  in  this  idiom.  AVoman  is  a  laryue 
(a  breeze  for  sails).  And  what  poesy  !  A  straw  is  la 
jjlume  (the  feather)  of  Beauce^  Beauce  being  rich  in 
cereals.  Midnight  is  rendered  by  the  paraphrase, 
Douze  plomhes  crossent  (twelve  leads  strike)  ;  the  words 
make  one  shudder !  liincer  une  camhriole  (rinse  out 
a  room),  means  to  plunder  it.  How  inferior  the  ex- 
pression, "go  to  bed,"  compared  with  se piausser  (new- 
skin  one's  self).  What  liveliness  of  comparison,  what 
imager}' !  Domi)ws,  teeth  ;  joiier  des  doiiinos,  eat  in 
haste  like  one  pursued;  oignon^  onion,  tears;  mouche^ 
fly,  police-spy ;  boussole,  compass,  brains ;  jnncette^ 
tongs,  legs ;  fourcJiette,  fork,  fingers.  Argot  goes 
on  forever !  It  follows  civilization ;  it  keeps  at  its 
heels ;  it  enriches  itself  with  every  new  invention. 
Potatoes,  brought  into  use  b}-  Louis  XVI.,  and  Par- 
mentier,  the  famous  agriculturist  (the  potato  was  first 
called  in  France  "la  parmentiere  "),  were  instantly 
argotized  as  "pigs'  oranges."  Paper  isfaffe,  from  the 
sound  when  you  touch  it.  Bank-bills  were  invented, 
and  the  galleys  at  once  called  them  fcifiots  garates^ 
from  Garat,  the  name  of  the  cashier  who  signed  them. 
Fafiot!  can't  you  hear  the  rustle  of  the  crisp  paper? 
The  thousand-franc  note  is  2^  fafiot  male;  the  five-hun- 
dred-franc note,  Vi  fafiot  femelle.  You  may  be  sure  that 
the  galleys  will  rebaptize  all  things  with  fantastic  but 
expressive  names. 


234  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

In  1790  Doctor  Guillotin  invented,  for  the  benefit 
of  human  it}',  the  expediting  piece  of  machinery  which 
solves  all  problems  suggested  by  the  penalty  of  death, 
and  bears  his  name.  No  sooner  had  the  convicts  and 
ex-galle3'-slaves  surve3'ed  that  machine,  standing  on  the 
monarchial  confines  of  the  old  system  of  justice  and 
the  frontiers  of  the  new,  than  they  named  it  the  Abhaye 
de  Monte-a-Hegret^  —  abbe}",  separation  from  the  world ; 
regret,  as  you  mount  the  steps  to  it.  Then  they  studied 
the  angle  at  which  the  steel  blade  made  its  stroke,  and 
called  its  action /(xttcAer,  to  mow.  When  we  remember 
that  the  gallej's  alwa3's  speak  of  themselves  as  le  pre 
(the  field)  it  really  seems  as  if  those  who  concern  them- 
selves with  the  science  of  language  ought  to  bow  be- 
fore the  creation  of  these  horrible  vocables^  as  Charles 
Nodier  would  have  called  them. 

We  must  recognize,  moreover,  the  great  antiquit}'" 
of  argot.  One  tenth  of  it  are  words  of  the  lingua 
romana,  another  tenth  the  old  Gallic  language  of 
Rabelais.  Effo7idrer,  break  open ;  otolondrer^  bore ; 
auhert^  silver,  —  that  is,  mone}' ;  gironde,  beautiful 
(the  name  of  a  river  in  the  langue  d'Oc)  ;  fouillousse^ 
pocket,  —  all  belong  to  the  language  of  the  fourteenth 
and  fifteenth  centuries.  Affe^  for  life,  is  of  the  high- 
est antiquit3\  From  troubler  Vciffe  comes  the  word 
a^reux,  —  the  meaning  of  which  is  "  that  which 
troubles  life." 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  235 

At  least  one  hnndred  words  of  argot  belong  to  the 
language  of  Panurge,  who,  in  the  Rabelaisian  work, 
symbolizes  the  people,  —  the  name  being  composed  of 
two  Greek  words,  which  mean,  "he  who  does  all." 
But  lo !  science  changes  the  whole  face  of  civilization. 
Raih'oads  are  built,  and  immediately  argot  is  ready 
with  their  name,  le  roidant  vif  the  burning  roller. 

The  name  of  the  head,  while  it  is  still  upon  their 
shoulders,  sorbonne,  dates  from  the  13th  century, 
and  indicates  the  antique  source  of  this  language 
in  the  oldest  romances,  those  of  Cervantes,  Aretino, 
and  the  Italian  novelli.  In  all  ages,  la  Jille,  the 
prostitute,  the  heroine  of  so  many  of  the  old  roman- 
ces, was  the  protectress,  companion,  and  comfort  of  the 
sharper,  the  thief,  the  swindler,  the  blackleg.  Prosti- 
tution and  robber}'  are  two  living  protestations,  male 
and  female,  of  the  natural  state  against  the  social  state. 
Consequenth'  philosophers,  new-fangled  theorists  of  the 
present  da}',  humanitarians,  wlio  have  at  their  tail  com- 
munists and  Fourierites,  will  bring  up,  before  they 
know  it,  at  two  barriers,  — theft  and  prostitution.  The 
thief  does  n't  discuss  in  sophistical  books  questions  of 
property,  heredity,  and  social  guarantees ;  he  ignores 
all  that.  To  him,  robbery  is  coming  into  possession  of 
his  own.  He  does  n't  discuss  marriage,  nor  find  fault 
with  it,  nor  ask  it,  as  in  printed  Utopias,  for  that  mutual 
agreement,  that  lasting  alliance  of  souls,  which  can't  be 


236  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

generalized  ;  be  couples  himself  with  a  woman  of  his 
species  by  chains  which  are  constantl}'  tightened  b}'  the 
hammer  of  necessity.  Modern  theorists  write  philan- 
thropic novels,  haz3',  muddy,  nebulous,  but  the  robber 
goes  to  work ;  he  is  as  clear  as  a  fact,  as  logical  as  a 
knock-down  blow.     And  what  a  capacit}'  he  has  !  " 

Another  observation.  The  world  of  thieves,  prosti- 
tutes, and  murderers,  the  galleys  and  the  prisons,  have 
a  population  of  between  sixt}'  and  eighty  thousand  in- 
dividuals, male  and  female.  This  world  cannot  be 
omitted  in  any  picture  of  manners  and  customs,  or  any 
truthful  reproduction  of  our  social  condition.  Civil 
officials,  the  gendarmerie,  and  the  police  make  a  force 
of  employes  nearlj'  equal  in  numbers  to  the  dangerous 
classes.  Is  not  this  a  singular  fact?  This  antagonism 
of  those  who  search  for  and  those  who  avoid  each  other 
reciprocally',  constitutes  a  vast  and  perpetual  duel  which 
is  eminently  dramatic.  It  is  with  robbery  and  prosti- 
tution as  it  is  with  theatrical  life,  the  police,  the  priest- 
hood and  the  gendarmerie.  In  those  six  conditions, 
the  individual  takes  on  a  special  and  indelible  char- 
acterization. He  can  no  longer  be  his  individual  self. 
The  stigmata  of  the  divine  ministr}'  are  irremovable ; 
so  are  the  signs  of  a  military  life.  Other  professions 
in  which  there  are  strong  oppositions,  contradictions 
to  civilization,  show  the  same  thing.  These  strange, 
fantastic,  violent,  or  sid  generis  diagnostics  make  the 


The  Last  IncaniatioR  of  VaiUrin.  237 

prostitute,  the  thief,  the  murderer,  the  ex-convict,  so 
easy  to  recognize  that  the}'  are  to  their  enemies,  the  police 
sp3'  and  the  gendarme,  what  the  game  is  to  the  hunter : 
the}'  have  a  gait,  manner,  and  complexion,  looks,  color 
and  smell  of  their  own,  in  short,  infallible  characteris- 
tics. Hence,  that  deep  science  of  disguises,  which  the 
celebrities  of  the  galleys  find  it  necessary  to  acquire. 

One  word  more  on  the  construction  of  this  under- 
world, which  the  abolition  of  branding,  the  lessening 
of  penalties,  and  the  stupid  indulgence  of  juries  now 
render  menacing.  In  fact,  in  twenty  years  from  now, 
Paris  will  be  surrounded  by  an  army  of  forty  thousand 
ex-convicts.  The  department  of  the  Seine,  with  its 
fifteen  hundred  thousand  inhabitants,  is  the  only  part 
of  France  where  these  criminals  can  hide  themselves. 
Paris  is  to  them  wdiat  the  virgin  forest  is  to  wild  beasts. 

The  haute  pdgre,  which  is  the  faubourg  Saint- 
Germain,  the  aristocracy  of  this  world,  resolved  itself 
in  181 G,  as  the  result  of  a  Peace  which  put  the  future 
of  so  many  lives  in  question,  into  an  association  called 
the  Grands  Fanandels^  in  wdiich  were  gathered  the 
most  celebrated  leaders  of  the  band,  and  some  other 
bold  minds  then  without  any  means  whatever  of  exis- 
tence. The  word  fanandels  means  brothers,  friends, 
comrades.  All  thieves,  convicts,  and  prisoners  are 
fanandels.  The  Grands  Fanandels,  the  cream  of  the 
haute  p^gre^  constituted  for  twenty  years  or  more  tae 


238  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

Court  of  Appetils,  the  Institute,  and  the  Chamber  of 
peers  of  the  people  of  their  world.  The  Grands  Fan- 
andels  all  had  their  private  means ;  capital  was  in 
common,  but  their  habits  and  ways  were  separate. 
The}'  all  knew  one  another,  and  each  was  bound 
to  aid  the  rest  in  difficult}'.  All  were  above  the  wiles 
and  seductions  of  the  police ;  they  had  their  own 
charter,  their  own  laws,  their  passwords  and  signs  of 
recognition.  The  dukes  and  peers  of  the  galleys 
formed,  between  1815  and  1819,  the  famous  society  of 
the  Dlx  Mille  (the  Ten  Thousand,  see  "  Pere  Goriot"), 
thus  named  from  the  solemn  agreement  entered  into, 
never  to  undertake  an}'  affair  in  which  there  was  less 
than  ten  thousand  francs  to  be  made.  At  the  time  of 
which  we  write,  that  is,  in  1827  and  1830,  sketches  of 
this  society,  its  forces,  the  names  of  its  members,  etc., 
were  being  published  by  one  of  the  celebrities  of  tiie 
detective  police.  In  those  "  Memoirs,"  we  find,  with 
something  like  terror,  the  record  of  an  army  of  great 
capacities,  in  men  and  women  so  formidable,  so  able, 
often  so  lucky,  that  criminals  like  Levy,  Pastourel,  Col- 
longe,  Chimaux,  men  between  fifty  and  sixty  years  of 
age,  are  there  stated  as  having  been  in  revolt  against 
society  from  their  earliest  childhood.  What  an  avowal 
of  impotence  in  law  and  justice  is  the  mere  existence 
of  thieves  and  robbers  of  that  age  I 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  239 


IV. 


HIS    MAJESTY   THE    DAB. 

Jacques  Collin  was  the  treasurer,  not  onlj'  of  the 
society  of  the  Dix  Mille^  but  also  of  the  Grands 
Fanandels^  the  heroes  of  the  galle3s.  Competent 
authorities  agree  that  the  convicts  at  the  galle3's  have 
property.  This  singular  state  of  things  is  explainable. 
The  proceeds  of  a  robberv  are  never  recovered  except 
under  peculiar  circumstances.  Condemned  robbers,  un- 
able to  take  the  money  with  them,  are  forced  to  have 
recourse  to  the  honor  and  capacit}'  of  some  ex-convict, 
in  whose  hands  they  place  their  propert}',  as  society  at 
large  confides  in  a  banking-house. 

Formerh',  Bibi-Lupin,  chief  of  the  detective  police 
for  the  last  ten  years,  had  been  a  member  of  the  aris- 
tocrac}'  of  the  Grands  Fanandels.  His  treacherj^  was 
caused  by  a  wound  to  his  vanitj'.  Trompe-la-Mort, 
with  his  keen  intelligence  and  prodigious  force  of  char- 
acter, was  constantlj'  preferred  to  him.  Hence  the 
unceasing  rancor  of  his  pursuit,  as  chief  of  the  detec- 
tive police,  against  Jacques  Collin.  Hence,  also,  came 
certain  compromises  between  Bipi-Lupin  and  his  former 


240  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

comrades,  which  the  authorities  about  this  time  were 
beginning  to  suspect. 

So,  in  his  desire  for  vengeance,  to  which  the  exam- 
ining judge  had  given  full  play  b}'  the  order  to  estab- 
lish, if  possible,  the  identitj'-  of  Jacques  Collin,  the 
chief  of  the  detectives  had  ver}^  judiciouslj'  selected 
his  men  when  he  arranged  to  confront  the  Spanish 
priest  with  La  Pouraille,  Fil-de-Soie,  and  Le  Biffon  ; 
for  La  Pouraille  and  Fil-de-Soie  belonged  to  the  Dix 
Mille,  and  Le  Biffon  was  a  Grand  Fanandel. 

La  Biffe,  the  terrible  largue  of  Le  Biffon,  who  to  this 
day  has  managed  to  escape  all  the  efforts  of  the  police, 
thanks  to  her  ability  in  disguising  herself  as  a  well-bred 
woman,  was,  of  course,  at  libert}'.  This  woman,  who 
knows  perfectly  well  how  to  pla}'  the  characters  of  wo- 
men of  rank,  keeps  a  carriage  and  servants.  A  species 
of  Jacques  Collin  in  petticoats,  she  is  the  onl}"  woman 
comparable  to  Asia,  Jacques  Collin's  right  arm.  Every 
hero  of  the  galleys  has  his  devoted  mate.  Judicial 
records  and  secret  chronicles  will  tell  3'ou  this.  No 
passion  of  a  virtuous  woman,  not  even  that  which  a 
religious  nature  feels  for  a  confessor,  can  surpass  the 
attachment  of  the  mistress  who  shares  the  peril  of 
these  great  criminals.  Such  passions  are  nearly  always 
the  originating  cause,  in  the  men,  of  their  most  daring 
enterprises,  and  of  their  murders.  Even  the  necessity 
of  living,  and  living  well,  is  small  in  comparison  with 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin,  241 

the  desire  these  women  inspire  in  their  generous  Medors 
to  give  them  jewels,  gowns,  and  especially  —  for  they 
are  alvva3S  greedy  —  choice  food.  The  girl  desires  a 
shawl,  the  lover  steals  it ;  and  she  thinks  the  theft  a 
proof  of  love.  That  is  how  men  are  frequcntl}'  led  into 
crime  ;  if  we  examine  the  human  heart  with  a  micro- 
scope, we  shall  see  that  this  proceeds  fi'om  a  primitive 
sentiment  in  the  nature  of  man. 

Thus  it  is  that  the  adoration  of  their  mistresses  is 
acquired  b}'  criminals,  the  terror  of  societ}'.  It  is 
female  devotion,  crouching  faithfully  at  the  doors  of 
prisons,  perpetually  emplo3'ed  in  thwarting  the  wiles 
of  the  police  or  the  examining  judges,  the  incorruptible 
guardian  of  the  blackest  secrets,  —  which  makes  so 
many  criminal  cases  obscure  and,  in  fact,  impeneti'able. 
There  lies  the  strength,  and  also  the  weakness,  of  the 
criminal.  In  the  language  of  these  women,  avoir  de  la 
yrohite  (to  be  honest)  means  not  to  fail  in  any  duty  to 
that  attachment ;  to  give  all  their  mone}'  to  the  men 
enflacque  (imprisoned)  ;  to  watch  over  their  safet}'  and 
comfort ;  to  keep  ever}'  species  of  faith  with  them  ;  and 
to  undertake  for  them  all  possible  things.  The  worst 
and  most  dishonoring  insult  one  of  these  women  can 
cast  upon  another  is  to  accuse  her  of  infidelit}'  toward 
a  lover  who  is  serve  (locked  up).  A  girl,  in  such  a 
case,  is  looked  upon  as  heartless. 

La  Pouraille  was  passionately  attached  to  a  woman, 

16 


242  The  Last  lacarnation  of  Vautrin. 

as  we  shall  presently'  see.  Fil-de-Soie,  a  philosophical 
egotist,  who  robbed  to  procure  a  fortune,  was  veiy  like 
Paccard,  Jacques  Collin's  henchman,  who  had  run  awa}^ 
with  Prudence  Servien  and  seven  hundred  and  lift}' 
thousand  francs.  He  had  no  affections  ;  he  despised 
women,  and  loved  only  himself.  As  for  Le  Biffon,  he 
derived  his  name,  as  we  have  already  said,  from  his 
attachment  to  La  Biffe.  These  three  illustrious  mem- 
bers of  the  haute  pegre  had  a  reckoning  to  demand  of 
Jacques  Collin,  though  the  accounts  between  them  were 
very  difficult  to  establish  clearl}^ 

The  treasurer  alone  knew  how  many  of  the  partners 
survived,  and  what  was  the  share  of  each  in  the  capital 
placed  in  his  hands.  The  mortality  peculiar  to  his 
clients  may  have  entered  into  Trompe-la-Mort's  calcu- 
lations when  he  resolved  to  manger  la  grenouille  (eat 
the  frog),  dissipate  the  sum  intrusted  to  him  on  Lucien. 
By  keeping  out  of  sight  of  his  former  companions  and  of 
the  police  for  several  3'ears,  Jacques  Collin  had  almost 
a  certainty  of  having  inherited,  according  to  the  laws 
of  the  Grands  Fanandels,  the  property  of  at  least  two- 
thirds  of  his  clients.  Besides,  he  conld  easily  allege 
that  payments  had  been  made  on  behalf  of  t\iQ  fanan- 
dels fauches.  No  register  existed  on  which  to  accuse 
this  hero  of  the  Grands  Fanandels.  Absolute  trust  had 
been  placed  in  him  of  necessit}',  for  the  hunted  wild- 
beast  life  led  bv  such  being's  forces  them  to  a  trustful- 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  24 


Q 


ness  of  the  utmost  delicac3\  Jacques  Collin  could 
probabl}"  liquidate  all  demands  on  the  three  hundred 
thousand  francs  placed  in  his  hands  with  less  than  a 
hundred  thousand.  At  the  present  moment,  as  we  have  , 
alread}' seen,  La  Pouraille,  one  of  Jacques  Collin's  cred- 
itors, had  only  ninety  days  to  live.  Provided  with  other 
sums  no  doubt  much  larger  than  that  in  Trompe-la- 
Mort's  care,  he  was  little  likel}'  to  be  exacting. 

One  of  the  infallible  diagnostics  b}-  which  directors  of 
prisons  and  their  agents,  the  police,  and  even  the  exam- 
ining-magistrates  recognize  a  clieval-de-retour  (returned 
post-horse),  that  is,  one  who  has  alread}'  eaten  gour- 
ganes  (a  species  of  bean,  on  which  the  convicts  at  the 
galleys  are  fed),  is  his  knowledge  of  prison  wa3's  ;  habit- 
ual criminals  are  naturall}'  aware  of  such  usages  ;  they 
are  at  home,  as  we  may  sa}',  and  nothing  surprises  them. 

Up  to  this  time  Jacques  Collin,  keeping  watch  against 
himself,  had  played  his  part  of  innocent  foreigner 
admirabl}',  both  at  La  Force,  and  in  the  Conciergerie. 
But  now,  cast-down  with  sorrow,  crushed  by  his  double 
death,  for  during  that  fatal  night  he  had  died  twice, 
Jacques  Collin  no  longer  remembered  to  be  other  than 
himself.  The  jailer  was  amazed  not  to  be  obliged  to 
tell  a  Spanish  priest  the  way  to  the  preau.  This  great 
actor  had  so  thoroughl}-  forgotten  his  part,  that  he 
went  down  the  spiral  staircase  of  the  Bonbec  tower, 
like  an  inmate  of  the  Conciergerie. 


244  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

"  Bibi-Lupin  is  right,"  tliouglit  the  jailer;  "he  is  a 
cheval-de-retour ;  it  must  be  Jacques  ColHii." 

At  the  moment  when  Jacques  Colhn  appeared  in  the 
sort  of  frame  made  for  his  figure  by  the  casing  of  tlie 
tower  door  tlie  prisoners  had  finished  making  their  pur- 
chases from  Saint-Louis'  table,  so-called,  and  were  dis- 
persed about  the  preau^  always  too  small  for  them. 
The  new  prisoner  was  therefore  seen  b}'  all  the  others 
at  once,  with  the  unequalled  rapidity  and  precision  of 
the  glance  of  convicts,  who  are  in  a  preau  like  spiders 
in  the  centre  of  their  webs.  This  comparison  is  mathe- 
matically exact ;  for  the  e^'e  being  limited  on  all  sides  by 
black  and  lofty  walls,  the  prisoners  see  at  all  moments, 
without  even  looking  at  them,  the  gate  through  which 
the  jailers  pass,  the  windows  of  the  parlor,  and  the 
door  to  the  staircase  of  the  Bonbec  Tower.  In  the 
isolation  of  a  prisoner's  life,  everything  is  an  event  to 
him,  and  takes  hold  of  his  mind.  His  ennui,  compara- 
ble to  that  of  a  tiger  at  the  Jardin  des  Plantes, 
increases  his  power  of  attention  tenfold.  It  is  not  un- 
necessary to  mention  here  that  Jacques  Collin,  dressed 
like  an  ecclesiastic  who  is  not  \Qvy  rigid  in  the  matter 
of  apparel,  wore  black  trousers  and  a  black  waistcoat, 
shoes  with  silver  buckles,  black  stockings,  and  a  dark- 
brown  surtout  coat,  the  cut  of  which  will  always  betray 
the  priest,  no  matter  what  he  does,  or  where  he  is, 
especiall}'  when  these  indications  are  enforced  by  the 


TJie  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  245 

characteristic  manner  in  which  the  hair  is  cut.  Jacques 
ColHn  wore  a  w^ig  superlatively  ecclesiastical,  and  won- 
derfully natural. 

'•  2' lens  I  tiensf  said  La  Pouraille  to  Le  Biffon, — 
"  a  bad  sign  !  a  sanglier  (wild-boar,  priest)  !  How  did 
he  get  here  ?  " 

"  It  is  one  of  their  trues  (dodges)  ;  that' s  a  cuisinier 
(spy)  of  a  new  kind,"  replied  Fil-de-Soie ;  "  some 
marchand  de  lacets  (gendarme,  allusion  to  handcuffs) 
disguised,  who  is  after  his  business." 

The  gendarme  has  three  different  names  in  argot : 
when  in  pursuit  of  a  criminal,  he  is  a  marchand  de 
lacets  (dealer  in  strings  of  any  kind)  ;  when  he  escorts 
a  prisoner,  he  is  a  hirondelle  de  la  Grh-e  (swallow  of 
the  place  of  execution)  ;  when  he  conducts  him  to  the 
scaffold,  he  is  the  hussctrd  de  la  guillotine. 

To  finish  this  picture  of  the  preaii  it  is,  perhaps, 
necessar}'  to  sketch  in  a  few  words  the  two  other 
fcmandels  whom  we  have  already  mentioned.  Selerier, 
alias  the  Auvergnat,  P^re  Ralleau,  Le  Rouleur,  Fil-de- 
Soie  (he  had,  in  fact,  thirt}'  names  and  as  many  pass- 
ports) will  here  be  designated  b}"  the  latter  nickname, 
the  onh'  one  bestowed  upon  him  by  the  haute  pegre. 
This  profound  philosopher,  w^ho  saw  a  gendarme  in  the 
priest,  was  a  lively  fellow  about  five  feet  four  inches  in 
height,  whose  muscles  stood  out  in  a  singular  manner. 
Beneath  an  enormous  head,  he  flashed  flames  from  his 


246  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

little  e3'es,  which  were  covered  (like  those  of  a  bird  of 
prey),  with  gra}'  lids,  hard  and  metallic.  At  first  sight 
he  resembled  a  wolf,  from  the  width  of  his  jaws,  which 
were  vigorousl}'  and  massively  outlined  ;  but  all  that 
this  resemblance  implied  of  cruelty,  even  of  ferocitv, 
was  counterbalanced  by  the  artfulness  and  vivacity  of 
his  features,  which  were  deeply  pitted  with  the  small- 
pox. The  edges  of  each  scar,  clean-cut,  had  something 
piquante  about  them.  Sarcastic  jests  without  num- 
ber were  written  there.  The  life  of  criminals,  which 
means  hunger  and  thirst,  and  nights  passed  in  bivou- 
acking on  quays,  and  banks,  under  bridges,  or  in  the 
streets,  the  orgies  of  strong  liquors  with  which  some 
triumph  is  celebrated,  had  laid  upon  this  man's  face  a 
sort  of  couch  of  varnish.  If  Fil-de-Soie  had  shown  him- 
self exactl}'  as  he  was,  any  gendarme  or  agent  of  police 
would  have  recognized  his  pre}^  at  thirty  paces  ;  but 
he  rivalled  Jacques  Collin  in  the  art  of  dyeing  or  paint- 
ing his  person  and  in  making  up  his  dress.  At  this 
moment,  Fil-de-Soie,  carelessly  arra3'ed,  like  all  great 
actors  when  not  upon  the  stage,  was  wearing  a  sort 
of  hunting  jacket,  —  to  which  buttons  were  lacking, 
while  the  ragged  buttonholes  disclosed  the  white  of  the 
lining,  —  a  pair  of  shabb3^  green  slippers,  trousers  of 
nankeen  now  faded  into  gray,  and  on  his  head  a  cap 
without  a  visor,  beneath  which  appeared  the  corners 
of  a  Madras  handkerchief,  much  torn  and  faded. 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  247 

Le  Biffon,  when  side  by  side  with  Fil-de-Soie,  pre- 
sented a  marked  contrast  to  him.  This  celebrated 
thief,  who  was  short,  stout,  fat,  active,  with  a  Hvid 
skin,  a  sunken  black  e3'e,  clothes  like  a  cook,  and 
two  bowlegs,  alarmed  beholders  by  a  countenance  in 
which  predominated  all  the  characteristics  peculiar  to 
the  organization  of  carnivorous  animals. 

Fil-de-Soie  and  Le  Biffon  were  pa3'ing  court  to  La 
Pouraille,  who  no  longer  retained  an}'  hope  of  life.  He 
knew  ver}'  well  that  he  should  be  tried,  condemned  and 
executed  within  four  months  ;  for  which  reason  Fil-de- 
Soie  and  Le  Biffon  called  him  by  no  other  name  than 
Le  Chanoine^  meaning  the  Chanoine  of  the  Abbaye  de 
Monte-a-Regret.  It  can  readil}'  be  imagined  how  Fil- 
de-Soie  and  Le  Biffon  cajoled  La  Pourraille.  The  lat- 
ter had  buried  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs 
in  gold,  his  share  of  tiie  boot}'  taken  from  the  house 
of  the  murdered  Crottats.  What  a  magnificent  bequest 
to  leave  to  two  fanandels,  although  the  pair  were  cer- 
tain to  be  returned  to  the  galleys  within  a  month. 
They  were  expecting  sentence  (for  robber}',  with  "  ag- 
gravated circumstances")  to  fifteen  years  at  tlie  galleys, 
in  addition  to  ten  remaining  years  of  a  former  sentence 
which  they  had  taken  the  liberty  to  interrupt.  So,  al- 
though the  one  had  twenty-two  years  and  the  other, 
twenty-six  years  of  hard  labor  to  do,  they  both  hoped 
to  escape  and  to  find  La  Pouraille's  hidden  gold.     But 


248  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vaiitrin. 

the  hero  of  the  Dix  Mille  kept  his  secret ;  he  thought 
it  useless  to  reveal  the  information  until  he  was  ac- 
tually sentenced.  Belonging  to  the  highest  aristocracy 
of  the  galleys,  he  had  not  betrayed  his  accomplices. 
His  character  was  well-known  ;  and  Monsieur  Popinot, 
tlie  examining  judge  in  this  dreadful  affair,  had  ex- 
tracted nothing  from  him. 

The  terrible  triumvirate  were  standing  at  the  upper 
end  of  the  i:)reau^  that  is,  directly  under  the  pistoles. 
Fil-de-Soie  was  ending  certain  instructions  to  a  3'oung 
man,  arrested  for  his  first  crime  and  considering  him- 
self sure  of  a  ten  years'  sentence,  who  was  asking  for 
information  about  the  three  j9re5  (galleys). 

"  Well,  my  Httle  fellow,"  Fil-de-Soie  was  sa3'ing,  sen- 
tentiously,  at  the  moment  when  Jacques  Collin  ap- 
peared, "there's  onh^  one  difference  between  Brest, 
Toulon,  and  Rochefort,  if  you  want  to  know  it." 

"Tell  me,"  said  the  young  man,  with  the  curiosity 
of  a  novice. 

This  youth,  the  son  of  a  famil}'  of  rank,  and  accused 
of  forgery,  had  come  down  to  t\\Q  preau  from  the  ad- 
joining pistole  to  that  of  Lucien. 

"  My  lad,"  continued  Fil-de-Soie,  "  at  Brest  you  are 
sure  of  finding  goiirganes  at  the  third  spoonful  when 
you  dip  into  the  bucket ;  at  Toulon  you  won't  get  'em 
till  the  fifth  ;  and  at  Rochefort  no  one  gets  any  unless 
he  's  an  ancien.'* 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  249 

Having  spoken,  that  [)rofound  philosopher  moved 
away  to  rejoin  La  Poaraille  and  Le  Biffon,  who,  greatl}' 
puzzled  by  the  san.glier^  began  to  walk  down  the  2^^(^aii, 
while  Jacques  Collin,  absorbed  in  his  grief,  walked  up 
it.  Filled  with  terrible  thoughts,  the  thoughts  of  a 
fallen  emperor,  Trompe-la-Mort  did  not  notice  that 
he  was  the  centre  of  all  eyes  and  the  object  of  general 
attention.  He  walked  slowlv,  gazinoj  before  him  at 
the  fatal  window  where  Lucien  had  hanged  himself. 
None  of  the  prisoners  knew  of  this  event,  for  Lucien's 
neighbor,  from  motives  which  we  shall  learn  presently, 
had  said  nothing  about  it.  The  three  faiiandels  walked 
abreast,  intending  to  bar  the  way  to  the  priest. 

"  That's  not  n  sanglier^''  said  La  Pouraille  to  Fil-de- 
Soie,  "  he  's  a  cheual-de-retour.  See  how  he  drags  the 
right ! " 

It  is  necessary  to  explain  here,  to  such  readers  as 
have  never  had  a  fanc}'  to  visit  the  galle3's,  that  each 
convict  is  coupled  to  another  (always  a  3'oung  and  an 
old  one  together)  by  a  chain.  The  weight  of  this  chain, 
riveted  to  a  ring  worn  just  above  the  ankle,  is  such 
that  b}'  the  end  of  the  first  3'ear  it  has  given  a  pecu- 
liar and  life-long  gait  to  the  wearer.  Obliged  to  send 
more  force  into  one  leg  than  into  the  other,  in  order  to 
draw  the  7nanicle  (that  is  the  name  the  galleys  give  to 
this  iron),  the  convict  contracts  the  habit  of  that  effort. 
Later,  when  he  no  longer  wears  his  chain,  he  is  like  a 


250  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

man  whose  leg  is  amputated  who  still  feels  the  missing 
limb  ;  the  galle3--slave  feels  his  manicle,  and  never  gets 
rid  entirely  of  the  gait  it  gives  him.  He  "drags  the 
right,"  as  the  police  term  is.  Tliis  diagnostic,  known  to 
convicts  as  it  is  to  the  police,  though  it  may  not  cause 
the  recognition  of  a  comrade,  certainly  completes  it. 

In  Trompe-la-Mort,  eight  years  having  elapsed  since 
his  last  escape  from  the  galleys,  this  peculiar  motion 
was  a  good  deal  lessened  ;  but  on  this  occasion  he 
walked  with  so  slow  and  solemn  a  step,  as  the  result 
of  his  absorbing  meditation,  that,  slight  as  the  defect 
w^as,  it  could  not  fail  to  strike  so  practised  an  eye  as 
that  of  La  Pouraille.  Moreover,  convicts  at  the  gal- 
leys, being  forever  in  presence  of  one  another,  and 
having  none  but  themselves  to  observe,  have  so  stud- 
ied the  countenance  of  their  kind  that  the}'  can  rec- 
ognize certain  habits  which  escape  the  knowledge  of 
their  systematic  enemies,  spies,  gendarmes,  and  com- 
missaries of  police.  It  was  thus  to  a  slight  twitching 
of  the  maxillary'  muscles  of  the  left  cheek,  recognized 
by  a  convict  who  was  sent  to  a  review  of  the  Legion 
of  the  Seine,  that  the  lieutenant-colonel  of  the  brigade, 
the  famous  Coignard,  owed  his  arrest ;  for,  in  spite  of 
Bibi-Lupin's  assurances,  the  police  were  afraid  to  be- 
lieve in  the  identit}'  of  Comte  Pontis  de  Sainte-Helene, 
with  so  great  a  criminal. 

"That  is  our  ddb  (master),"  said  Fil-de-Soie,  after 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  251 

receiving  from  Jacques  Collin  the  abstracted  glance 
which  men  engulfed  in  despair  cast  upon  all  about 
them. 

"  Faith !  j'es,  that  is  Trompe-la-Mort,"  said  Le 
Biffon,  rubbing  his  hands.  "Yes,  that's  his  figure, 
his  cut.  But  what  has  he  done  to  himself?  He  does  n't 
seem  the  same  man." 

"Oh,  I  see  what  he  is  after!"  cried  Fil-de-Soie. 
"He  has  a  plan;  he  wants  to  see  Theodore  before 
they  execute  him." 

"  So  they  are  going  to  terrer  (earth,  execute)  that 
3'ouug  one  !  "  said  La  Pouraille.  ''  Pretty  bo}' !  what 
a  hand  !  what  hair  !     A  great  loss  to  societj' !  " 

"  Yes,  Theodore  Calvi  morfile  (eats)  his  last  mouth- 
ful to-day,"  said  Le  Biffon.  "  Ah  !  his  largues  must  be 
crying  their  eyes  out,  for  they  loved  him  well,  the  little 
beggar ! " 

"  So  here  you  are,  old  fellow  !  "  said  La  Pouraille  to 
Jacques  CoUm. 

And  in  concert  with  his  two  acolytes,  between  whom 
he  was  walkino;  arm  in  arm.  he  barred  the  way  of  the 
new-comer. 

"  Oh,  ddb  !  wh}'  did  j'ou  make  3'ourself  a  sanglier  ?  " 
added  La  Pouraille. 

"  The}'  sa}'  you  have  poisse  nos  j^hili^opes  (filched 
our  five-franc  pieces),"  said  Le  Biffon,  with  a  threat- 
ening air. 


252  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

"  Do  3'ou  mean  to  (ihouler  du  carle  (give  back  the 
monej' ;  carle  from  carolus,  monc}'  struck  under  King 
Charles  VIII.),"  demanded  Fil-de-Soie. 

These  three  interrogations  went  off  like  pistol-shots. 

"  Do  not  ridicule  a  poor  priest  brought  here  b}-  mis- 
take," replied  Jacques  Collin,  who  instantly  recognized 
his  former  comrades. 

"  That's  the  son  de  son  grelot  (sound  of  his  rattle, 
speech),  if  it  is  n't  his  frimousse  (face),"  said  La  Pou- 
raille,  putting  his  hand  on  Jacques  Collin's  shoulder. 

This  action  and  the  looks  of  his  three  comrades 
brought  the  dab  violentl}'  out  of  his  dejection,  and  re- 
stored him  to  a  sense  of  actual  life  ;  for  during  this 
fatal  night  he  had  roamed  the  spiritual  and  infinite 
worlds  of  the  soul's  consciousness  in  search  of  some 
new  existence. 

"  iVe  fais  pas  du  ragout  sur  ton  dab  (Don't  rouse 
suspicions  on  3'our  master),"  said  Jacques  Collin,  in  a 
hollow,  threatening  voice,  which  was  not  unlike  the 
smothered  growl  of  a  lion.  "  La  raille  (the  police) 
are  there.  Let  them  fall  into  their  own  trap.  I  am 
playing  mislocq  (comedy)  for  a  fanandel  en  fine 
pegr-ene  (a  comrade  in  the  last  extremity)." 

This  was  said  with  the  unction  of  a  priest  trying  to 
impress  sinners,  and  was  accompanied  by  a  look  with 
which  Jacques  Collin  took  in  the  whole  ^weau^  saw  the 
jailers  under  the  arcade,  and  showed  them  sarcastically' 
to  his  comrades. 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  253 

"  See  those  cmsiniers  (spies).  Allumez  vos  cla'irs^ 
et  remouchez  (light  your  hghts  and  snuff  the  enndles  ; 
see  and  observe).  JSFe  nie  conobrez  pas,  &pargnons  le 
poitou^  and  engantez  mo  I  en  sanfjlier  (Don't  know  me  ; 
let  us  take  precautions,  and  treat  me  as  a  priest),  or 
I  '11  ruin  you,  —  you,  your  lanjues,  and  your  aubert 
(fortunes)." 

''  T^as  done  tafe  de  7iozigues  (do  3'ou  distrust  us)?" 
said  Fil-de-Soie.  "  Have  you  come  to  cromper  (save), 
Theodore?" 

"•Theodore!"  exclaimed  Jacques  Collin,  repressing 
a  cr}'.  It  was  a  last  torturing  blow  to  the  broken 
colossus. 

"  They  are  going  to  buter  (knock  over,  guillotine) 
him,"  said  La  Pouraille.  "  He  has  been  gerbe  a  mort 
(sheaved,  condemned  to  death)  for  the  last  two 
months." 

Jacques  Collin  was  taken  with  a  sudden  faintness ; 
his  knees  gave  wa}'.  The  three  fanandels  supported 
him,  and  he  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  clasp  his 
hands,  and  seem  to  speak  with  unction.  La  Pouraille 
and  Le  Biftbn  respectfully  held  him  up,  while  Fil-de- 
Soie  ran  to  the  jailer  stationed  as  guard  before  the  door 
which  led  to  the  parlor. 

"  This  venerable  priest  wants  to  sit  down  ;  give  him 
a  chair,"  he  said. 

Thus    Bibi-Lupin's     grand     stroke    was    a    failure. 


254  The  Last  Incarnation  of  VaiUrin. 

Trompe  la-Mort,  like  Napoleon,  recognized  by  his 
soldiers,  obtained  the  respect  and  submission  of  the 
three  convicts.  Two  words  had  sufficed.  Those  words 
were  3'our  largues  and  3'our  aubert  (your  women  and 
your  mone}'),  the  summing  up  of  the  real  affections  of 
mankind.  This  threat  was  to  the  three  criminals  an 
indication  of  power.  The  dab  still  held  their  fortune 
in  his  hands.  All-powerful  as  ever,  their  dab  had  not 
betrayed  them,  as  false  brothers  said  he  had.  More- 
over, the  colossal  reputation  for  abilit}-  and  shrewdness 
acquired  by  their  master  stimulated  the  curiosit}'  of  the 
three  men  ;  for,  in  prison  life,  curiosity  is  the  sole  spur 
to  these  jaded  minds.  The  boldness  of  Jacques  Col- 
lin's present  disguise,  maintained  even  under  the  bolts 
and  bars  of  the  Conciergerie,  bewildered  and  dazzled 
the  three  criminals. 

"  I  have  been  in  solitary  confinement  for  the  last 
four  days,  and  I  did  not  know  that  Theodore  was  so 
near  the  abbaye,''  said  Jacques  Collin.  '*  I  came  here 
to  save  a  poor  young  fellow  who  hanged  himself  yester- 
day, up  there^  at  four  o'clock,  and  here  I  am,  con- 
fronted with  another  misfortune.  I  have  no  longer  any 
aces  in  my  game  !  " 

"  Poor  dub  !  "  said  Fil-de-Soie. 

"Ha!  the  boulanger  (hixkev^  devil)  abandons  me!" 
cried  Jacques  Collin,  tearing  himself  out  of  his  com- 
rades' arms.     "  I  tell  you  there  comes  a  moment  when 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  255 

the  world  is  stronger  than  we  are !  La  Cigogne  (the 
stork,  Palais  tie  Justice,  prefecture  of  police,  the  crim- 
inal authorities),  La  Ciffogne  nabs  us  at  last." 

The  director  of  the  Conciergerie,  informed  of  the 
faintness  of  the  Spanish  priest,  came  himself  to  the 
preau  to  watch  him.  He  ordered  a  chair  to  be  brought, 
made  him  sit  down  in  the  sunlight,  and  examined  his 
whole  appearance  and  bearing  with  that  formidable 
perspicacity  which  increases  day  by  day  through  the 
exercise  of  such  functions,  though  it  is  always  hidden 
under  an  air  of  perfect  indifference. 

"  Ah,  monsieur  !  "  said  Jacques  Collin,  ''  to  be  con- 
founded with  such  people,  the  refuse  of  societj',  crim- 
inals, murderers !  But  God  will  not  abandon  his 
servant.  My  dear  monsieur,  I  will  strive  to  mark  m}' 
passage  through  this  dreadful  place  by  acts  of  mere}', 
the  memory  of  which  will  last.  I  will  endeavor  to  con- 
vert these  unhapp3'  men,  and  teach  them  that  they 
have  a  soul ;  that  eternal  life  awaits  them,  and  al- 
though the}'  have  lost  all  on  earth,  the}'  still  have 
heaven  to  win,  —  the  heaven  that  belongs  to  true 
repentance." 

Twenty  or  thirty  prisoners,  clustering  at  the  back  of 
the  three  great  convicts,  whose  dangerous  glances  kept 
three  feet  of  distance  between  themselves  and  the  in- 
quisitive group,  heard  this  allocution  uttered  with  evan- 
gelical unction. 


256  The  Last  Incariiation  of  Vautrin. 

"He!  Monsieur  Gault,"  said  the  formidable  La 
Pouraille  ;   "oh,  3'es,   we'll  listen  to  him!" 

"  The}'  tell  me,"  said  Jacques  Collin,  beside  whom 
Monsieur  Gault  was  standing,  "  that  a  man  condemned 
to  death  is  in  this  prison." 

*'Yes;  they  have  just  read  to  him  the  rejection  of 
his  appeal,"  replied  Monsieur  Gault. 

"  I  don't  understand  what  that  means,"  said  Jacques 
Collin,  looking  helplessl}'  about  him. 

"  Heavens  I  is  n't  he  sinve  (simple)  ?  "  said  the  3'outh 
who  had  lately  consulted  Fil-de-Soie  about  the  galleys. 

"Why,  it  means,"  said  the  nearest  prisoner,  "that 
to-da}'  or  to-morrow  the}'  'Wfauche  him." 

"  Fauche  ? "  said  Jacques  Collin,  whose  look  and 
tone  of  ignorance  filled  his  three  fanandels  with 
admiration. 

"  In  their  language,"  said  the  director,  "  that  means 
the  execution  of  the  penalty  of  death.  When  the  clerk 
has  read  to  the  prisoner  the  rejection  of  his  appeal,  the 
executioner  receives  orders  to  proceed  with  the  execu- 
tion. The  unhappy  man  has  steadily  refused  the  succor 
of  religion." 

"  Ah,  monsieur,"  cried  Jacques  Collin,  "  there  is  a 
soul  to  save  !  " 

He  clasped  his  hands  with  an  expression  of  feeling 
which  seemed  to  have  the  effect  of  divine  fervor  upon 
the  watchful  director. 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  257 

*' Monsieur,"  continued  Trorape-la-Mort,  "let  me 
prove  to  30U  what  I  am,  and  what  I  can  do  ;  permit  me 
to  bring  repentance  into  that  hardened  heart.  God  has 
given  me  the  faculty'  of  saying  certain  words  which 
produce  great  changes  in  the  soul.  I  touch  some 
hearts;  1  open  them.  What  can  you  fear?  Send 
jailers  or  gendarmes  with  me  if  you  choose." 

*'  I  will  see  if  the  chaplain  of  the  prison  will  allow 
you  to  take  his  place,'"  said  Monsieur  Gault. 

The  director  withdrew,  struck  with  the  air  of  perfect 
indifference,  except  as  to  curiosity,  with  which  the  con- 
victs and  other  prisoners  looked  at  the  priest,  whose 
unctuous  voice  bestowed  a  charm  on  his  French  and 
Spanish  jargon. 

"  How  did  3'ou  come  here,  monsieur  I'abbe?"  asked 
Fil-de-Soie's  young  questioner. 

"Oh,  h\  mistake!"  replied  Jacques  Collin,  taking 
the  measure  of  the  young  man.  "  I  was  found  in  the 
house  of  a  courtesan  who  was  robbed  after  her  death. 
It  was  evident  that  she  had  killed  herself;  but  the 
robbers,  who  were  probably  the  servants,  were  not 
arrested." 

"  Was  it  on  account  of  that  robber3'  the  3'oung  man 
hanged  himself? " 

"  The  poor  lad  could  not  endure  the  thought  of  being 
disgraced  by  unjust  imprisonment,"  replied  Trompe-la- 
Mort,  raising  his  eyes  to  heaven. 

17 


258  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

"Yes,"  said  the  3'oung  man,  "for  I  am  told  they 
were  just  going  to  release  him  when  he  committed  sui- 
cide.    AYhat  ill-luck !  " 

"It  is  onl}'  innocence  that  cannot  bear  the  thought 
of  disgrace,"  said  Jacques  Collin.  "Remark  also  that 
the  theft  was  a  loss,  not  a  gain,  to  him." 

"  How  much  did  it  amount  to?"  asked  Fil-de-Soie, 
the  deep  and  shrewd. 

"  Seven  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs,"  said 
Jacques  Collin,  in  a  low  voice. 

The  three  convicts  looked  at  each  other,  and  retired 
from  the  group  which  the  other  prisoners  had  formed 
round  the  so-called  ecclesiastic. 

"It  is  he  who  has  rince  la  profonde  (rinsed 
out,  robbed)  the  girl,"  said  Fil-de-Soie  to  Le  Biffon, 
in  a  low  voice.  "  The}^  have  tried  to  coquer  le 
taffe  (frighten  us ;  toffe  from  the  German  taffen, 
to  be  afraid)  about  our  thunes  de  dalles  (five-franc 
pieces). 

"  He  '11  always  be  the  dab  of  the  Grands  Fanandels,^^ 
said  La  Pouraille.  "Our  carle  has  not  been  decare 
(made  awa}'  with)." 

La  Pouraille,  who  was  looking  for  a  man  in  whom 
he  could  trust,  had  an  interest  in  thinking  Jacques 
Collin  honest.  In  prisons,  above  all  other  places,  men 
believe  what  they  hope. 

"I'll  bet  that  he'll  esquinte  le  dub  de  la  Cigogne 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  259 

(fool   the    attorn ej'-general)    and    cromjyer  Theodore," 
said  Fil-de-8oie. 

"  If  he  does,"  said  Le  Biffon,  ''  I  sha'n't  exactl}'  think 
him  Meg  (God),  bat  he  must  have  houffarde^  as  they 
sa}'  he  has,  with  the  boalanger  (smoked  a  pipe  with  the 
devil)." 

"Yes,  that's  so;  didn't  you  hear  him  say,  '  ie 
boulanger  abandons  me'?"  remarked  Fil-de-Soie. 

"Ah!"  eried  La  rouraille,  "if  he  would  onl}' 
crom.jyer  ma  sorbonne,  what  a  viocque  (hfe)  I'd  liave 
with  my  fade  de  carle  (share  of  our  mone\')  safe  in  his 
hands,  and  ray  ro7idins  jau7ies  servis  (gold  pieces 
buried)." 

'*  Fais  sa  balle  (follow  his  advice),"  said  Fil-de- 
Soie. 

'•''  Planches-tii  (are  you  joking)?"  replied  La  Pou- 
raille,  looking  at  his  fanandel. 

"Aren't  you  sinve  (silly)!"  exclaimed  Le  Biffon. 
"You'll  be  gerhe  a  la  jxisse  (condemned  to  death); 
therefore,  you  have  n't  any  other  lovrde  ci  i^Gssigner 
(door  you  can  force)  to  keep  on  3'our  paturons  (feet), 
and  morfiler,  dessalei',  and  goupiner  (eat,  drink,  and 
steal)   again,  except  to  lend  him  your  back." 

"  One  thing  is  certain,"  said  La  Pouraille,  "  not  one 
of  us  is  to  fail  Xho,  dub ;  whoever  does,  I'll  take  him 
with  me  where  I  am  going." 

"  And  he  11  do  as  he  says  !"  cried  Fil-de-Soie. 


260  The  Last  Inca7niation  of  Vautrin. 

Persons  who  are  least  susceptible  of  S3'mpath3-  tor 
this  strange  world  of  criminals  can  now  conceive  the 
state  of  mind  of  Jacques  Collin,  who  saw  on  the  one 
hand  the  dead  bod^'  of  the  idol  he  had  vvatched  during 
five  terrible  hours  of  the  past  night,  and  on  the  other, 
the  approaching  death  of  his  former  chain  companion, 
Theodore  Calvi.  Even  to  see  the  latter,  he  had  need 
to  display  uncommon  cleverness ;  but  to  save  him 
would  be  a  miracle  ;  and  his  mind  alread}'  turned  that 
way. 

To  understand  what  he  now  attempted,  it  is  neces- 
sary to  remark  here  that  thieves  and  murderers  and 
all  those  who  people  the  galleys  are  not  as  formidable 
as  we  believe  them  to  be.  Putting  certain  very  rare 
exceptions  aside,  they  are  all  cowards,  as  the  result, 
no  doubt,  of  the  fear  that  is  perpetually  pressing  on 
their  minds.  Their  faculties  beinsj  ceaselesslv  bent  on 
stealing,  and  the  execution  of  each  exploit  demanding 
the  employment  of  all  the  forces  of  life,  an  agility  of 
mind  equal  to  that  of  tlie  body,  and  an  attention  which 
uses  up  their  mental  force,  the}'  become  stupid  outside 
the  range  of  these  violent  exercises  of  their  will,  for 
the  same  reason  that  a  singer  or  a  dancer  falls  ex- 
hausted after  a  fatiguing  pas^  or  one  of  tliose  ter- 
rible duos  which  modern  composers  inflict  upon  the 
pubUc. 

Evil-doers  are,  in  fact,  wlien  not  employed  upon  their 


TJie  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  261 

special  business,  so  devoid  of  reason,  or  so  oppressed 
I)}'  fear,  that  the}'  become  under  many  circumstances 
absolute  children.  Credulous  to  the  last  degree,  the 
simplest  strateg}'  will  take  them  in.  After  the  success 
of  some  enterprise,  the}'  are  in  such  a  state  of  pros- 
tration that  they  rush  immediately  into  all  forms  of 
debauchery,  to  recover  calmness  by  exhausting  all  their 
forces ;  they  seek  forgetful ness  of  their  crime  in  the 
overthrow  of  their  reason.  In  this  condition,  tliey  are 
at  the  mercy  of  the  police.  Once  arrested,  they  are 
blind,  they  lose  their  heads,  they  have  so  much  need 
of  hope  that  they  believe  in  everything ;  and  there  is 
no  absurdity  which  tliey  cannot  be  made  to  admit.  An 
example  will  serve  to  show  to  what  lengths  the  stupid- 
it}"  of  a  captured  criminal  can  go.  Bibi-Lupin  had 
recently  obtained  the  confession  of  a  murderer,  w'ho 
was  nineteen  years  of  age,  by  inducing  him  to  believe 
that  minors  were  never  executed.  When  the  young 
fellow  was  transferred  to  the  Conciergerie  to  undergo 
his  sentence  after  the  rejection  of  his  appeal,  Bibi- 
Lupin  saw  him. 

''Are  you  quite  sure  you  are  not  twenty  3'ears  old?" 
said  that  terrible  detective  agent. 

"Quite  sure;  I  am  only  nineteen  and  a  half,"  said 
the  murderer,  who  was  perfectly  calm. 

"Well,"  replied  Bibi-Lupin,  "make  yourself  easy; 
you  never  will  be  twenty." 


262  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

"How  so?" 

"  Because  you  will  be  fauche  within  three  da3'S." 

The  murderer  who  still  believed,  even  after  his  sen- 
tence, that  minors  were  never  executed,  collapsed  like 
an  omelette  soufflee. 

These  men,  so  cruel  from  the  necessity  of  suppress- 
ing testimonj',  for  they  murder  to  destro}'  proof  (this 
is  one  of  the  reasons  put  forth  by  those  who  oppose 
the  death  penalty),  these  colossi  of  adroitness  and  abil- 
ity, in  whom  the  action  of  the  hand,  the  rapidity  of  the 
glance,  in  short,  all  the  senses  are  trained  like  those 
of  savagjes,  are  onlv  heroic  evil-doers  on  the  scene  of 
their  exploits.  The  crime  committed,  not  onh'  do  em- 
barrassments begin  (for  the}^  are  as  doltish  under  the 
necessity  of  hiding  the  proceeds  of  their  theft  as  in  the 
rest  of  their  conduct),  but  the}'  are  weakened  ph3'sically, 
like  a  woman  after  her  confinement.  Vii^orouslv  enero-etic 
in  their  conceptions  of  an  evil  deed,  they  are  like  chil- 
dren after  it  succeeds.  In  a  word,  these  men  are  wild 
beasts,  eas}*  to  kill  when  the}'  are  surfeited.  Once  in 
prison,  however,  these  singular  beings  become  men  in 
dissimulation  and  silent  discretion,  who  seldom  give  way 
till  the  last  instant,  after  the}'  have  been  tortured  and 
exhausted  by  examinations  and  the  length  of  their 
imprisonment. 

We  can  now  understand  how  it  was,  that  the  three 
fanandels^  instead  of  betraying  their  dab^  resolved  to 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  263 

serve  him  ;  thej'  suspected  that  he  was  master  of  the 
seven  hundred  and  fiftj^  thousand  francs  ;  they  admired 
his  calmness  under  the  bolts  and  bars  of  the  Con- 
ciergerie ;  and  tliej'  believed  him  cai)able  of  affording 
them  protection. 


264  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 


V. 


THE    CONDEMNED    CELL. 

When  Monsieur  Gault,  the  director  of  the  Con- 
ciergerie,  left  xX^Qpreau,  he  returned  to  his  office  through 
the  parlor,  in  order  to  find  Bibi-Lupin,  who  for  the 
last  twenty  minutes  had  been  watching  Jacques  Collin's 
meeting  with  his  fellow  fancuidels  through  a  peep-hole 
constructed  below  one  of  the  windows  in  that  room. 

''  None  of  them  recognized  him,"  said  Monsieur 
Gault;  '"and  Napolitas,  who  has  watched  them  all, 
detected  nothing.  The  poor  priest,  in  his  despondency 
through  the  night,  said  not  a  word  that  showed  Jacques 
Collin  beneath  his  cassock." 

"That  proves  onl}^  how  well  he  knows  prisons," 
replied  the  detective  afficer. 

Napolitas,  Bibi-Lupin's  secretar}^,  unknown  to  all 
the  prisoners  then  in  the  Conciergerie,  had  plaj'ed  the 
part  of  the  3'oung  man  of  family  arrested  for  forgerj'. 

"  He  asks  permission  to  confess  the  man  who  is  now 
to  be  executed." 

"  Good  !  "  said  Bibi-Lupin,  "  that 's  our  last  resource  ; 
I  wonder  I  did  not  think  of  it.  Theodore  Calvi,  that 
young  Corsican,  was  Jacques  Collin's  chain  companion. 


The  Last  Tncarnatlon  of  Vautrin.  265 

They  used  to  su}-  tluit  Jacques  Collin  made  him  the 
best  ^9«?;a raises  ev'ei'  seen  at  the  pre." 

Galley-slaves  make  a  sort  of  pad  which  they  slip 
between  the  iron  ring  and  their  flesh,  so  as  to  lessen 
the  pressure  of  the  manicle  on  the  ankle  and  instep. 
These  pads,  made  of  tow  and  linen,  are  called  at  the 
galleys,  patarasses. 

''Who  is  watching  the  condemned  man?"  asked 
Bibi-Lupin,  addressing  Monsieur  Gault. 

'^  Coeur-la-Virole." 

"Good!  then  I'W  p)iaiisser  (new-skin)  myself  as  a 
gendarme  and  watch  him  m^'self.  I  shall  hear  tliem, 
and  I  '11  answer  for  all." 

"  Are  not  you  afraid  that  if  it  is  Jacques  Collin, 
he  might  recognize  you  and  strangle  you  ? "  asked 
Monsieur  Gault. 

"  As  a  gendarme  I  shall  have  a  sabre,"  replied  the  offi- 
cer. "  Besides,  if  it  is  Jacques  Collin,  he  will  never  do 
anything  to  let  himself  be  gerber  ci  la  passe  (condemned 
to  death).     If  he  is  a  priest,  of  course  I  am  safe." 

"  There  is  no  time  to  lose,  then,"  said  Monsieur 
Gault ;  "  it  is  half-past  eight ;  P^re  Sauteloup  had  just 
read  the  rejection  of  the  appeal,  and  Monsieur  Sanson 
is  waiting  for  the  order  from  the  Parquet." 

"Yes,  the  execution  is  fixed  for  to-day;  the  hus- 
sards  de  la  Veuve  (veuve,  widoiv,  —  another  name,  a 
terrible  name,  for  the  guillotine)  are  ordered  out,"  re- 


266  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

plied  Bibi-Liipin.  "  I  understand  why  it  is  that  the 
attorney-general  hesitates.  The  fellow  has  steadil}" 
declared  his  innocence,  and  to  my  mind  there  have  not 
been  convincing  proofs  against  him." 

"He  is  a  true  Corsican,"  replied  Monsieur  Gault ; 
"he  has  never  said  a  word  that  could  implicate  him; 
he  resists  all  efforts  to  make  him  speak." 

These  last  words  contain  the  dismal  historj'  of  a  man 
condemned  to  death,  —  a  man  whom  law  and  justice 
cut  from  the  land  of  the  living.  The  Parquet  [the 
attorne3'-general,  his  bureau,  in  general  terms,  the  Law] 
is  sovereign  ;  it  is  dependent  on  none  ;  it  acts  of  its 
own  conscience  only.  Prisons  belong  to  the  Parquet, 
which  is  their  absolute  master.  Poesy  has  laid  hold 
of  the  "man  condemned  to  die,"  as  a  social  subject 
eminently  fitted  to  strike  the  imagination.  Poesy  can 
be,  and  has  been,  sublime  on  that  topic;  prose  has 
no  resource,  except  reality,  but  that  realit}'  is  terrible 
enough  to  hold  its  own  against  poetical  enthusiasm. 
The  life  of  a  condemned  criminal,  who  has  not  con- 
fessed his  crime  or  his  accomplices,  is  one  of  fearful 
torture.  No  longer  subjected  to  the  "boot,"  which 
crushed  the  feet,  nor  to  the  pouring  in  of  water  to  the 
stomach,  nor  to  the  stretching  of  the  limbs  by  horrible 
machinery,  the  wretched  man  is  delivered  over  to  an 
artful  and,  so  to  speak,  negative  torture.  The  Parquet 
leaves  him,  after  he  is  once  sentenced,  absolutely  alone  ; 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  2G7 

in  darkness  and    in  silence,  witli  only  one  companion 
(a  spy),  whom,  of  necessitN',  he  distrusts. 

Amiable  modern  philanthropy  thinks  it  knows  all 
about  the  horrible  punishment  of  isolation  ;  it  is  quite 
mistaken.  Since  the  abolition  of  torture,  the  Parquet, 
with  a  natural  desire  of  comforting  the  alread\'  too  sen- 
sitive consciences  of  juries,  has  discovered  the  terrible 
resources  of  working  upon  remorse  which  solitar}'  con- 
finement gives  to  justice.  Solitude  is  a  vacuum,  and 
the  moral  nature  abhors  it  as  deeply  as  the  ph3'sical 
nature.  Solitude  is  not  habitable,  except  to  the  man 
of  genius  who  fills  it  with  his  ideas, — those  virgins 
of  the  spiritual  world ;  or  to  the  contem})lator  of 
Divine  w^orks,  who  finds  it  illuminated  by  the  light 
of  heaven  and  filled  b}-  the  breath  and  voice  of  God. 
Outside  of  those  two  classes  of  men,  so  near  to  par- 
adise, solitude  is  to  torture  what  morals  are  to  phys- 
ics. Between  solitude  and  torture,  there  is  simply  the 
difference  between  nervous  illness  and  a  case  of  sur- 
gery-. It  is  sufl^ering  multiplied  indefinitel}'.  The  bod}' 
touches  the  infinite  through  the  nervous  system  as  the 
spirit  penetrates  it  b}-  thought.  Therefore,  in  the  rec- 
ords of  the  Parquet  of  Paris  criminals  who  die  without 
confessing  their  crime  are  few  in  number. 

This  gloomy  situation,  which  assumes  enormous  pro- 
portions in  certain  cases  (in  politics  for  instance,  when 
the  State  or  a  dynasty  is  in  question) ,  has  a  place  of 


268  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

its  own  ill  the  "  Corned}^  of  Human  Life."  But  here 
and  now,  a  description  of  the  stone  box  in  which,  since 
the  Restoration,  the  Parquet  of  Paris  keeps  the  pris- 
oner who  is  condemned  to  death,  must  suffice  to  sliow 
the  horror  of  the  last  days  of  that  man. 

Before  the  revolution  of  July  there  existed,  and  still 
exists,  in  the  Conciergerie  what  is  called  the  "death 
chamber."  This  room  adjoins  the  office,  but  is  sepa- 
rated from  it  by  a  massive  wall ;  it  is  also  flanked  by  a 
wall,  seven  feet  thick,  which  supports  a  portion  of  the 
vast  Salle  des  Pas-perdus.  It  is  entered  from  a  long, 
dark  corridor,  into  which  the  63-0  penetrates  when  we 
stand  in  the  middle  of  the  great  arched  hall  of  the 
guichet^  the  office  hall.  This  dismal  room  gets  all  its 
light  from  a  ventilator,  protected  by  a  heav}'  iron  grat- 
ing, which  is  hardly  noticeable  as  we  enter  the  Con- 
ciergerie. All  escape  from  it  is  impossible.  The 
corridor,  which  leads  to  the  solitary  cells  and  the 
women's  quarter,  opens  in  the  hall  near  the  stove, 
round  which  the  jailers  and  gendarmes  are  always 
gathered.  The  ventilator,  sole  opening  to  the  exte- 
rior, nine  feet  above  the  floor,  looks  into  the  first 
court-3'ard,  guarded  by  sentries  at  the  outer  gate.  No 
human  power  could  succeed  in  mining  the  walls  ;  more- 
over, a  criminal,  when  condemned  to  death,  is  instanth" 
put  into  the  camisole  (strait-jacket),  —  an  article  which 
deprives  him  of  the  use  of  his  hands  ;  he  is  also  chained 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  269 

b}-  the  leg  to  his  camp  bedstead,  and,  as  a  final  guard, 
he  is  watched  and  fed  by  a  mouton  (police  sp}).  The 
floor  of  this  room  is  paved  with  thick  stone  blocks,  and 
the  light  is  so  feeble  that  the  eye  can  barely  distinguish 
anything. 

It  is  impossible  not  to  feel  chilled  to  the  ver}"  mar- 
row of  our  bones  in  entering  this  dreadful  place,  even 
to-day,  when  sixteen  years  have  elapsed  since  this 
death  chamber  has  been  used,  —  changes  in  the  execu- 
tion of  criminal  justice  having  altered  the  arrangements 
of  the  prison.  But  imagine  the  criminal  in  that  place 
in  company  with  his  remorse,  in  silence  and  darkness, 
^ —  two  sources  of  horror,  —  and  ask  3'ourselves  if  such 
imprisonment  was  not  enough  to  drive  him  mad.  What 
organizations  those  must  be  if  their  quality  resists  a 
mental  strain  to  which  the  strait-jacket  adds  that  of 
immobility,  inaction  ! 

Theodore  Calvi,  the  Corsican,  now  twenty-seven  3'ears 
of  age,  had  wrapped  himself  in  a  veil  of  absolute 
silence,  and  for  two  months  had  resisted  the  effects  of 
this  dungeon,  and  the  insidious  chatter  of  his  attendant 
sp3'.  The  following  account  of  the  singular  criminal 
case  which  had  led  to  the  Corsican's  condemnation  is 
worth  reading.  Although  it  is  extremel}'  curious,  the 
analysis  here  given  will  be  ^-ery  rapid ;  for  it  is  impos- 
sible to  make  a  long  digression  in  a  scene  which  seeks 
to  offer  no  other  interest  than  that  surrounding  Jacques 


270  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

Collin,  —  a  species  of  vertebral  column,  who  by  his 
dangerous  influence  is  bound  up,  so  to  speak,  with 
other  volumes  of  this  stud}'  of  manners  and  customs, — 
namely,  "  Pere  Goriot,"  "  The  Great  Man  of  the  Prov- 
inces in  Paris,"  and  "  Lucien  de  Rubempre."  The 
imagination  of  the  reader  will  develop  for  itself  the 
mysteries  of  a  crime  which  at  this  moment  was  causing 
great  uneasiness  to  the  judges  and  juries  of  the  court 
before  which  Theodore  Calvi  had  been  tried.  Since  the 
day  when  the  criminal's  petition  had  been  rejected  by 
the  Court  of  Appeals,  the  attorney-general,  Monsieur  de 
Granville,  had  studied  the  case,  and,  in  consequence,  had 
delayed  the  execution  of  the  sentence  from  daj^  to  day,  so 
anxious  was  he  to  reassure  the  jurors  b}'  making  known 
publicly  that  the  criminal  had  confessed  his  crime. 

A  poor  widow  at  Nanterre,  living  in  a  lonely  house 
in  that  township,  which  is  situated,  as  we  all  know,  in 
the  middle  of  the  arid  plain  which  lies  between  Mont- 
Valerien,  Saint-Germain,  the  hills  of  Sartrouville,  and 
d'Argenteuil,  was  murdered  and  robbed  a  few  days 
after  she  had  received  her  share  of  an  unexpected 
legacy.  This  share  consisted  of  three  thousand  francs 
in  mone}',  a  dozen  forks  and  spoons,  a  chain,  a  gold 
watch,  and  some  linen.  Instead  of  investing  the  money 
in  Paris,  as  the  notar}'  of  the  man  who  bequeathed  it 
advised,  the  old  woman  chose  to  keep  it  b}'  her.  In 
the   first  place,   she   had    never   before  seen  so  much 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  271 

money  of  her  own  ;  and  in  the  next,  she  distrusted 
every  living  soul  in  matters  of  business,  as  country- 
people  of  the  working-classes  generally  do.  but  after 
much  discussion  with  a  wine-merchant  of  Kanterre, 
who  was  her  relation,  and  also  the  relation  of  the 
deceased  man,  the  widow  finall}'  resolved  to  buy  an 
annuit}',  sell  her  house  at  Nanterre,  and  go  to  live  as 
a  bourgeoise  at  Saint-Germain. 

The  house  she  occupied,  surrounded  b}'  a  large  gar- 
den inclosed  bv  a  miserable  fence,  was  the  usual  poor 
abode  which  small  farmers  in  the  neighborhood  of  Paris 
build  for  themselves.  Plaster  and  rough  stone,  being 
plentiful  at  Nanterre,  where  the  land  is  honeycombed 
with  quarries  worked  on  the  surface,  had  been  hastih' 
put  together,  as  we  often  see  near  Paris,  without  the 
slightest  architectural  idea.  Such  constructions  are  the 
huts  of  civilized  savages.  This  particular  house  con- 
sisted of  a  ground-floor  and  a  second  floor,  above  which 
w^ere  the  attics.  The  husband  of  this  woman,  and  the 
builder  of  the  house,  w4io  had  owned  a  quarry,  had  put 
ver}'  solid  iron  bars  to  all  the  windows.  The  entrance 
door  was  also  remarkably  solid.  The  man  must  have 
feared  their  loneh*  life  in  the  open  country,  —  and  such 
a  country' !  His  business  connections  were  ehiefl}'  with 
the  master-masons  of  Paris,  and  from  thence  he  brought 
back  in  his  empt}'  carts  the  more  important  materials 
of  his  house,  which  was  built  about  five  hundred  feet 


272  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

from  the  quarry.  He  picked  out  the  things  he  wanted 
among  the  various  "  demoUtions"  of  Paris,  and  bought 
them  at  a  very  low  price.  Thus  the  windows,  iron 
raiUngs,  doors,  blinds,  and  all  cabinet-work,  came  from 
authorized  destruction,  or  were  gifts  made  to  him  by 
his  customers,  the  masons.  The  house,  approached 
through  a  good-sized  court-3'ard,  in  which  were  the 
stables,  was  inclosed  from  the  main  road  by  walls.  A 
strong  iron  railing  made  the  gate  ;  watch-dogs  were  in 
the  stable,  and  a  small  dog  was  kept  in  the  house  at 
night.  Behind  this  building  lay  a  garden  of  rather 
more  than  two  acres  in  extent. 

The  wife  of  the  quarry-man,  now  a  widow  without 
children,  lived  alone  in  the  house  with  a  single  servant. 
The  sale  of  the  quarr}'  had  paid  off  the  debts  of  her 
late  husband,  who  had  been  dead  two  years.  The  sole 
propert}^  of  the  widow  was  the  lonel}'  house,  where  she 
kept  cows  and  chickens,  selling  the  milk  and  eggs  in 
Nanterre.  As  she  no  longer  kept  either  a  stable-man,  a 
carter,  or  laborers  in  the  quarr}',  the  garden  was  not 
cultivated  and  all  the  vegetables  she  ate  came  up  of 
themselves  in  the  stony  soil. 

The  proceeds  of  the  sale  of  the  house,  and  her  late 
inheritance  amounted  in  all  to  about  eight  thousand 
francs,  and  the  widow  thought  herself  very  luck}'  to  be 
able  to  live  at  Saint-Germain  on  the  annuity  of  seven 
or   eight   hundred   francs  which   she   expected  to  get 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  273 

from  the  investment.  She  had  held  several  confer- 
ences with  a  notarj'  at  Saint- Germain,  for  she  refused 
to  take  an  annuity  from  her  cousin  the  wine-merchant 
at  Nanterre,  who  had  offered  her  the  investment. 

This  was  the  state  of  things  when  it  was  noticed 
one  day  that  neither  the  widow  Pigeau  nor  her  servant- 
woman  had  been  seen  for  some  time.  At  the  end  of 
three  days,  the  law,  informed  of  this  fact,  went  to  work  ; 
Monsieur  Popinot,  an  examining  judge,  and  the  public 
prosecutor  came  down  from  Paris,  and  the  following 
facts  were  established  :  — 

Neither  the  iron  gates  of  the  court-yard,  nor  the  en- 
trance door  to  the  house  showed  an}^  sign  of  burglar}'. 
The  key  was  in  the  lock  of  the  front  door  on  the  in- 
side. Not  a  single  iron  bar  had  been  forced.  The 
locks,  blinds,  in  short,  all  the  means  of  closing  the 
house,  were  intact.  The  walls  showed  no  trace  what- 
ever of  the  passage  of  evil-doers.  The  chimnej's  being 
of  tile  flues  did  not  afford  an}'  practicable  entrance. 
The  roofs  were  sound  and  in  proper  condition,  and 
showed  no  signs  of  violence.  AYhen  the  magistrates, 
the  gendarmes,  and  Bibi-Lupin  reached  the  bedrooms 
on  the  second  floor,  they  found  the  widow  Pigeau  stran- 
gled in  lier  bed,  and  the  servant  strangled  in  hers  with 
their  own  night-handkerchiefs.  The  two  bodies  were 
in  a  state  of  putrefaction  ;  so  were  the  bodies  of  the 
two  watch-dogs  and  the  little  house-dog.     The  three 

'18 


274  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

thousand  francs  had  been  taken  as  well  as  the  forks 
and  spoons  and  jewels.  The  garden  fence  was  next 
examined  ;  it  had  not  been  broken.  Within  the  gar- 
dens the  paths  showed  no  trace  of  any  one  having 
passed  along  them.  The  judge  thought  it  probable 
that  the  murderer  had  walked  on  the  grass  to  avoid 
leaving  footprints,  in  case  he  had  entered  the  premises 
at  the  back.  But,  even  so,  how  did  he  get  into  the 
house?  On  the  garden  side,  the  door  had  a  frame  in 
which  were  three  iron  bars  that  were  found  to  be  in- 
tact. The  ke}^  was  in  the  lock  on  tlie  inside  as  at  the 
front  door. 

When  the  fact  of  these  impossibilities  was  plainly 
demonstrated  by  Monsieur  Popinot  and  Bibi-Lupin,  who 
spent  a  whole  day  on  the  premises,  observing  every- 
thing, and  also  by  the  public  prosecutor  and  the  com- 
mander of  the  post  at  Nanterre,  the  murder  became 
a  terrible  problem,  before  which  justice  and  the  law 
seemed  forced  to  succumb. 

This  drama,  which  was  published  in  the  "  Gazette 
des  Tribunaux,"  took  place  in  the  winter  of  1828  and 
1829.  Heaven  knows  what  an  excitement  of  curiosity 
the  m3'Sterious  crime  stirred  up  in  Paris.  But  Paris 
finds  new  dramas  to  batten  on  every  morning,  and  soon 
forgets  each  one.  The  police,  however,  forget  nothing. 
Three  months  after  the  abortive  inquiry,  a  girl  of  the 
town,  who  was  being  observed  by  the  agents  of  Bibi- 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  275 

Lupin  in  consequence  of  her  sudden  extravagance,  and 
watched  on  account  of  her  acquaintance  with  certain 
thieves,  endeavored  ineffectually  to  pawn,  through  a 
friend,  twelve  knives  and  forks  and  a  gold  watch  and 
chain.  This  fact  reached  the  ears  of  Bibi-Lupin,  who 
renaembered  such  articles  as  being  stolen  at  Nanterre. 
The  commissioners  of  the  Mont-de-Piete,  and  all  the 
second-hand  dealers  in  Paris  who  -were  known  to  be 
receivers  of  stolen  goods  were  notified,  and  Bibi-Lupin 
put  the  girl,  who  was  called  Manon-la-blonde,  under 
strict  surveillance. 

Now  Manon-la-blonde  was  deeply  in  love  with  a 
5'oung  man  who  was  little  known,  and  was  thought  to 
be  indifferent  to  the  fair  Manon.  Myster}'  upon  mj's- 
ter}^  This  young  man,  when  subjected  after  this  dis- 
cover}^ to  the  attention  of  spies,  was  found  to  be  no 
other  than  an  escaped  galley-slave,  a  famous  hero  of 
several  Corsican  vendettas,  the  handsome  Theodore 
Calvi. 

A  treacherous  receiver  of  stolen  goods,  one  of  those 
dealers  who  serve  both  criminals  and  police,  was 
launched  upon  Theodore,  and  after  sundrj'  negotiations 
he  agreed  to  buy  the  plate  and  the  watch  and  chain. 
At  the  moment  when  this  man  was  counting  out  the 
mone}'  to  Theodore,  who  was  disguised  as  a  woman, 
the  police  made  a  descent  upon  the  shop,  arrested  Calvi, 
and  seized  the  articles.     The  examination  at  once  be- 


276  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautriii. 

gan.  From  such  feeble  elements  it  was  impossible  to 
draw  out,  to  use  the  Parquet's  term,  a  capital  offence. 
Calvi  never  contradicted  himself;  his  statement  was 
not  confused.  He  said  that  a  country'  woman  had  sold 
him  those  articles  at  Argenteuil ;  after  having  bought 
them,  he  heard  of  the  murder  at  Nanterre  and  saw  the 
danger  of  possessing  articles  which,  having  been  de- 
scribed in  the  inventor}'  of  the  deceased  uncle's  prop- 
erty, were  known  to  have  been  in  the  possession  of  the 
murdered  woman.  Finalh',  being  compelled  b}'  pov- 
erty to  sell  these  articles  he  had  tried  to  get  rid  of 
them  by  employing  a  young  woman,  who  was  not  other- 
wise mixed  up  in  the  affair. 

Nothing  further  could  be  obtained  from  the  Corsican, 
who  was  able  by  his  firmness  and  his  silence  to  put  into 
the  mind  of  the  authorities  an  idea  that  the  wine-mer- 
chant of  Nanterre  was  the  guilty  person,  and  that  his 
wife  had  sold  the  stolen  articles.  The  unfortunate 
cousin  of  the  late  widow  and  his  wife  were  arrested; 
but  after  a  week's  imprisonment  and  close  examination 
it  was  proved  that  neither  husband  nor  wife  had  left 
their  place  of  business  during  the  time  when  the  mur- 
der was  committed.  Moreover,  Calvi  did  not  recognize 
in  the  wife  the  woman  who,  as  he  declared,  had  sold 
him  the  property. 

As  Manon-la  blonde,  who  was  implicated  in  the  affair, 
was  proved  to  have  spent  over  a  thousand  francs  be- 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  211 

tween  the  period  of  the  murder  and  the  time  when  she, 
at  Calvi's  request,  tried  to  pawn  the  stolen  articles, 
such  proof  was  thought  sufficient  to  send  botli  the  ex- 
convict  and  his  concubine  before  the  court  of  assizes. 
This  murder  was  the  eighteenth  committed  b}'  the  Cor- 
sican  ;  he  was  judged  guilty,  and  condemned  to  death, 
for  he  seemed  to  be  the  author  of  the  crime  so  skilfull}' 
committed.  The  examination  had  proved  by  a  number 
of  witnesses  that  Calvi  was  at  Nanterre  for  over  a 
month  at  the  time  of  the  murder ;  he  had  worked  for 
masons,  and  his  face  was  constantl}'  covered  with  dust 
and  plaster.  All  who  saw  him  at  Nanterre  declared 
that  he  was  only  eighteen  years  old,  and  he  must  have 
plotted  and  prepared  the  crime  for  a  month  before 
committing  it. 

The  Parquet  believed  he  had  accomplices.  Thej' 
measured  the  tubes  of  the  chimney  to  see  if  Manon-la- 
blonde's  slender  body  could  have  passed  through  them  ; 
but  a  child  of  six  could  n't  have  slipped  through  the 
tile-pipes  which  modern  architects  substitute  for  the 
huge  chimne}'  flues  of  former  da^'s.  It  was  this  irri- 
tating and  singular  uncertaintv  which  delayed  the  exe- 
cution of  Theodore's  sentence.  The  prison  chaplain 
had,  as  we  have  already  heard,  totally  failed  in  obtain- 
ing a  confession  from  him. 

This  affair  and  Calvi's  name  appear  to  have  escaped 
the  attention  of  Jacques  Collin,  then  preoccupied  with 


278  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

his  own  plot  against  Nucingen.  Moreover,  Trompe- 
la-Mort  had  avoided  as  much  as  possible  les  amis,  and 
all  connected  with  the  Palais  de  Justice.  To  be  brought 
face  to  face  with  a  /anandel  might  subject  the  ddb  to  a 
demand  for  an  accounting  he  could  not  make. 

The  director  of  the  Conciergerie  went  at  once  to  the 
office  of  the  attorne3'-general,  and  there  found  the  public 
prosecutor  talking  with  Monsieur  de  Granville,  and 
holding  the  order  for  execution  in  his  hand.  Monsieur 
de  Granville,  who  had  spent  the  night  at  the  h6tel  de 
Seriz}',  overwhelmed  with  fatigue  and  anxiet}'  (for  the 
physicians  dared  not  affirm  as  3'et  that  the  countess 
would  keep  her  reason),  was  nevertheless  obliged  by 
this  important  execution  to  be  at  his  office  earh\ 
After  talking  a  few  moments  with  the  director,  Mon- 
sieur de  Granville  took  back  the  order  of  execution 
from  his  assistant  and  gave  it  to  Gault. 

*'Let  the  execution  take  place,"  he  said,  "unless 
extraordinarj'  circumstances  appear,  and  of  those  you 
must  judge ;  I  trust  wholly  in  your  prudence.  The}" 
can  delay  putting  up  the  scaffold  until  half-past  ten 
o'clock ;  you  have,  therefore,  an  hour  left.  In  sucli  a 
case  hours  are  equal  to  centuries,  and  many  events 
may  occur  in  a  centur}'.  Do  not  give  an}'  hope  of  a 
reprieve.  Let  the  toilette  be  made  if  necessarj- ;  and 
if  the  prisoner  makes  no  confession,  give  Sanson  the 
order  for  execution  b}-  half-past  ten.  Let  him  wait  till 
then." 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  279 

As  the  director  was  leaving  the  office  of  the  attorne}'- 
general,  he  met  Monsieur  Camusot  in  tlie  vaulted  pas- 
sage which  leads  to  the  galler}',  who  was  on  his  wa^'  to 
find  Monsieur  de  Granville.  He  stopped,  and  had  a 
rapid  conversation  with  the  judge,  whom  he  informed 
of  all  that  had  happened  at  the  Conciergerie  in  relation 
to  Jacques  Collin ;  then  he  hurried  on  to  superintend 
the  confronting  of  Trompe-la-Mort  with  his  former  chain 
companion.  He  did  not,  however,  permit  the  self- 
stvled  ecclesiastic  to  see  the  condemned  man  until 
Bibi-Lupin,  admirably  disguised  as  a.  gendarme,  had 
taken  the  place  of  the  police  sp}'  who  was  watching  the 
3'oung  Corsican. 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  astonishment  of  the 
%\\YQQ  fa7ia7idels  when  they  saw  a  jailer  come  in  search 
of  Jacques  Collin  to  take  him  to  the  condemned  cell. 
They  jumped  toward  the  chair  in  which  Jacques  Collin 
was  sitting,  simultaneously. 

"Is  it  for  to-day,  Monsieur  Julien?"  asked  Fil-de- 
Soie  of  the  jailer. 

*'Yes,  Chariot  is  there,"  replied  the  ofl^cial,  with 
perfect  indifference. 

The  populace  and  the  world  that  inhabits  prisons 
give  that  name  to  the  executioner  of  Paris.  It  dates 
back  to  the  revolution  of  1789.  The  name  produced  a 
profound  sensation.  All  the  prisoners  looked  at  each 
other. 


280  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vaittrin. 

"  It  is  settled,"  said  the  jailer,  in  reply  to  some  in- 
quiries. "  Monsieur  Gault  has  received  the  order  for 
execution,  and  the  sentence  has  just  been  read." 

"So,"  said  La  Pouraille,  "the  lad  has  had  all  the 
sacraments." 

And  he  drew  in  a  long  breath. 

"Poor  little  Theodore ! "  cried  Le  Biffon ;  "he  is  a 
nice  little  chap.  It  is  a  pity  to  eternuer  dans  le  son 
(sneeze  into  the  bran,  the  basket  of  the  guillotine)  at 
his  age." 

The  jailer  went  toward  the  guichet^  thinking  that  the 
Spanish  priest  followed  him  ;  but  Jacques  Collin  walked 
slowly,  and  when  he  saw  the  jailer  ten  steps  ahead  of 
him,  he  turned  faint,  and  signed  to  La  Pouraille  to  give 
him  an  arm. 

"  He  's  a  murderer,"  said  Napolitas,  motioning  to  La 
Pouraille,  and  offering  to  the  priest  his  own  arm. 

"  No,  to  me  he  is  a  sufferer,"  replied  Trompe-la- 
Mort,  with  the  presence  of  mind  and  unction  of  the 
archbishop  of  Cambrai. 

He  walked  awa}^  from  Napolitas,  who  had  seemed  to 
him  suspicious  from  the  moment  he  laid  eyes  on  him, 
and  said  rapidly  in  a  low  voice  to  the  \X\yqq  fanandels  i 

"  He  is  on  the  first  step  of  the  Ahhaye-de-Monte-h- 
Regret^  but  I  'm  the  prior.  I  '11  show  you  how  to  en- 
tijier  la  Cicogne  (lead  to  church,  get  round  the  law). 
I  '11  cromper  that  sorhonne  from  its  clutches,  —  I  seek 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  281 

to  give  that  soul  to  heaven  !  "  he  added,  with  fervor, 
as  he  saw  the  prisoners  pressing  round  him. 

He  overtook  the  jailer  at  the  guichet. 

"  He  came  to  save  Theodore,"  said  Fil-de-Soie,  — 
"we  o'uessed  riofht.     What  a  dub/" 

"How  can  he  save  liim?  The  hussards  de  la  gidl- 
lotine  are  there  ;  he  won't  even  be  allowed  to  see  him," 
said  Le  Biffon. 

"  He  has  le  boulanger  on  his  side  !  "  cried  La  Pou- 
raille.  "  He,  poisser  nos  phiU2?pes  (crib  our  money)  ! 
—  not  he !  He  loves  les  amis  too  well ;  he  has  too 
much  need  of  us.  The}'  've  been  tr3ing  to  put  us  (X 
la  manque  pour  lid  (fail,  betra}'  him)  ;  but  we  are  not 
gnioles  (ninnies) .  If  he  can  cromper  Theodore  he  shall 
have  ma  balle  (m}'  secret)." 

These  last  words  onl}'  served  to  increase  the  devo- 
tion of  the  three  convicts  to  their  master.  From  that 
moment  their  famous  dab  became  all  their  hope. 

Jacques  Collin  now  pla3'ed  his  part  without  a  failure. 
He,  who  knew  the  Conciergerie  as  well  as  he  knew  the 
three  galleys,  mistook  the  wa}'  so  naturall}'  that  the 
jailer  was  obliged  to  say  to  him  at  every  turn,  "This 
way,"  •'  That  way,"  until  the}'  reached  the  greffe  (the 
chief,  or  registration,  office).  There  Jacques  Collin  saw 
at  a  glance,  leaning  against  the  stove,  a  large  man 
dressed  in  black,  with  a  long  and  ruddy  face  which 
was  not  without  a  certain  distinction,  in  whom  he 
recosrnized  Sanson. 


282  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vaiitrin, 

"Monsieur  is  the  chaplain?"  he  said,  going  up  to 
him  with  an  air  of  cordialit}'. 

This  mistake  was  so  dreadful  that  it  horrified  the 
spectators. 

"  No,  monsieur,"  replied  Sanson,  "  I  have  other 
functions.'' 

This  Sanson,  the  father  of  the  last  executioner  (from 
whom  the  office  has  latel}^  been  taken),  was  the  son 
of  the  Sanson  who  executed  Lous  XVT. 

After  an  hereditary  exercise  of  this  function  for  four 
hundred  j'ears,  the  heir  of  so  man}'-  torturers  had  at- 
tempted to  cast  off  the  burden  of  this  entail.  The 
Sansons,  executioners  at  Rouen  during  a  period  of 
two  centuries  before  they  were  promoted  to  the  first 
office  of  their  calling  in  the  kingdom,  had  executed 
Jthe  sentences  of  the  law,  from  father  to  son,  since 
the  thirteenth  centur3\  There  are  few  families  who 
can  show  an  example  of  a  genealogy  preserved  from 
father  to  son  for  six  centuries.  The  man  whom  we 
now  see  was  a  cavalry  captain  w^th  ever}-  prospect 
of  a  gallant  career  before  him,  when  his  father  com- 
pelled him  to  assist  in  the  execution  of  the  King. 
After  that,  when  the  countless  executions  of  1793  re- 
quired two  scaffolds  (one  at  the  Barriere  du  Tr6ne,  the 
other  on  the  place  de  Greve),  he  made  him  his  second. 
About  sixty  3'ears  of  age  at  the  time  of  which  we  now 
write,  this  terrible  functionary  was  noticeable  for  his 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautriii.  283 

gentle  and  composed  manner,  the  good  taste  of  his 
dress,  and  his  deep  contempt  for  Bibi-Liipin  and  his 
acolytes,  the  purveyors  of  the  guillotine.  The  oulj- 
indication  in  the  man  which  betra3'ed  the  blood  of  the 
old  torturers  was  the  breadth  and  the  extraordinarj' 
thickness  of  his  hands.  Sufficiently  well-educated,  valu- 
ing higlih'  his  status  as  citizen  and  elector,  passion- 
ately' devoted,  it  was  said,  to  gardening,  this  tall,  stout 
man  with  a  low  voice,  a  calm  demeanor,  a  broad  and 
bald  forehead,  and  habituall}'  silent,  was  far  more  like 
a  member  of  the  British  aristocracj'  than  the  execu- 
tioner of  France.  Consequently,  a  Spanish  canon  might 
easil}'  have  committed  the  mistake  which  Jacques  Collin 
committed  intentionallj'. 

"He  is  not  a  convict,"  said  the  head -jailer  to  the 
director. 

"  I   begin   to   think    so   m^'self,"   replied   Monsieur 
Gault,  nodding  to  his  subordinate. 

Jacques  Collin  was  at  once  ushered  into  the  sort  of 
cellar  where  3'oung  Theodore,  in  a  strait-jacket,  was 
sitting  on  the  edge  of  his  horrible  iron  bedstead. 
Trompe-la-Mort,  taking  instant  advantage  of  the  light 
tlirown  into  the  cell  bj'  the  opening  of  the  door,  recog- 
nized his  enemy  Bibi-Lupin  in  the  gendarme  who  was 
standing  on  guard  and  leaning  on  his  sabre. 

"  lo  sono   Gabha-Morte.     Paiia   nostra   italiano^^^ 
said  Jacques  Collin,  quickl}'.     "  Vei^go  ti  salvar."    ("  I 


284  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

am  Trompe-la-Mort ;  speak  Italian ;  I  come  to  save 
you.") 

All  that  the  two  comrades  now  said  to  each  other  was 
unintelUgible  to  the  false  gendarme,  and  as  Bibi-Lupin 
was  there  as  guard  over  the  prisoner  he  dared  not 
leave  his  post.  The  wrath  of  the  chief  of  the  detective 
police  may  be  imagined. 

Theodore  Calvi,  a  young  man  with  a  sallow,  olive 
skin,  fair  hair,  and  hollow  eyes  of  a  misty  blue,  ex- 
tremely well-made,  and  possessing  that  amazing  mus- 
cular strength  which  is  found  concealed  under  the 
lymphatic  appearance  of  many  Southerners,  would 
have  had  a  most  charming  countenance  were  it  not  for 
a  retreating  forehead,  arched  eyebrows,  red  lips  of  sav- 
age cruelty,  and  a  twitching  of  the  muscles  of  the  face, 
denoting  that  faculty  for  irritation  especially  charac- 
teristic of  Corsicans  which  makes  them  so  prompt  to 
assassinate  in  a  sudden  quarrel. 

Amazed  at  the  sound  of  Jacques  Collin's  voice, 
Theodore  raised  his  head,  believing  it  was  some  hallu- 
cination. Then,  as  a  two  months'  sojourn  in  that  stone 
box  had  accustomed  his  eyes  to  the  darkness,  he  saw 
that  the  new-comer  was  a  priest,  and  he  sighed  heavily. 
He  did  not  recognize  Jacques  Collin,  whose  face,  seamed 
by  the  action  of  sulphuric  acid,  did  not  resemble  that  of 
his  ddh. 

"It  is  I,  your  Jacques  ;  I  have  made  myself  a  priest, 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  285 

and  I  come  to  save  you.  Don't  be  fool  enough  to  recog- 
nize me  ;  seem  to  be  confessing  to  me." 

This  was  said  very  rapidly. 

"  The  3'oung  man  appears  to  be  much  broken  down  ; 
death  terrifies  him.  I  think  he  will  confess  ah,"  said 
Jacques  Collin,  addressing  the  gendarme. 

"  Tell  me  something  to  prove  that  you  are  he ;  for 
you  have  nothing  about  you  but  his  voice,"  said 
Theodore. 

*' Poor  3'outh !  he  tells  me  he  is  innocent,"  said 
Jacques  Collin,  still  addressing  the  gendarme. 

Bipi-Lupin  dared  not  answer  for  fear  of  being 
recognized. 

"  Semx)re  mi^"  replied  Jacques  Collin  to  Theodore, 
uttering  their  private  password  in  his  ear. 

"  fSempre  ti,"  murmured  the  3'oung  man,  giving  the 
right  reply.     ''Yes,  you  are  indeed  my  dab." 

"  Did  you  do  the  trick  (commit  the  murder)  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Tell  me  all,  so  that  I  may  see  how  to  save  3-00. 
There  is  no  time  to  lose.     Chariot  is  here." 

The  Corsican  at  once  knelt  down  at  the  priest's  feet, 
and  seemed  about  to  confess.  Bibi-Lupin  was  at  a  loss 
what  to  do,  for  the  conversation  was  so  rapid  it  took 
less  time  to  carry  it  on  than  it  does  to  read  it.  Theo- 
dore related  all  the  circumstances  of  his  crime,  Jacques 
Collin  being  ignorant  of  them. 


286  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vantrin. 

''  The  jury  condemned  me  without  proof,"  he  said,  in 
conclusion. 

"  Child,  you  are  arguing  when  the}'  are  about  to  cut 
your  hair !  " 

"  I  was  really  only  chargeable  with  pawning  the 
jewels.  That 's  how  people  judge,  —  and  in  Paris, 
too !  " 

"  How  was  it  done?"  asked  Trompe-la-Mort. 

"Ha!  this  way.  Since  I  saw  3'ou  I've  made  the 
acquaintance  of  a  Corsican  girl.  I  met  her  when  I 
came  to  Paris." 

"Men  who  are  foolish  enough  to  fall  in  love  with 
women,"  exclaimed  Jacques  Collin,  "  perish  that  way. 
They  are  tigers  out  of  cages,  —  tigers  who  gossip,  and 
have  looking-glasses.     You  were  very  foolish." 

"But  —  " 

"  Go  on ;  tell  me  what  that  damned  woman  did  for 
3'ou." 

"  That  love  of  a  woman  —  slim  as  an  eel,  active  as  a 
monkey  —  slipped  through  the  top  of  the  oven,  and 
opened  the  door  of  the  house  to  me.  The  dogs  were 
poisoned.  I  chilled  the  two  women.  After  we  got  the 
money  and  things,  Ginetta  locked  the  door,  and  got  out 
through  the  oven." 

"  Such  cleverness  as  that  deserves  to  live,"  said 
Jacques  Collin,  admiring  the  workmanship  of  the  crime 
as  a  carver  admires  a  beautiful  figurine. 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  287 

"  But  I  committed  the  foil}'  of  displaying  all  that 
cleverness  for  a  paltry  three  thousand  francs." 

"  No,  for  a  woman  !  "  said  Jacques  Collin.  "  I  tell 
3'ou  the}'  rob  us  of  our  intellects  ;  "  and  he  cast  a  look  of 
sovereign  contempt  on  Theodore. 

"  You  were  gone,  and  I  had  no  one  to  look  to," 
replied  the  Corsican. 

"Do  you  love  the  girl?"  asked  Jacques  Collin, 
somewhat  moved  by  that  appeal. 

''  Ah  !  if  I  live,  J  'd  rather  follow  you  than  her." 

''Well,  make  3'ourself  easy;  I  am  not  named 
Trompe-la-Mort  for  nothing.  I  take  upon  myself  to 
save  3'OU." 

"What!  my  life?"  cried  the  3'oung  Corsican,  striv- 
ing to  raise  his  swaddled  arms  to  the  damp  stone  roof 
of  his  dungeon. 

"  My  bo3',  3'ou  must  be  prepared  to  go  back  to  the 
old  galle3's,"  continued  Jacques  Collin.  "  That  can't 
be  helped  ;  3'ou  don't  expect,  do  30U,  to  be  crowned 
with  roses,  like  the  carnival  bull?  If  we  are  booked 
for  Rochefort,  it  is  because  they  want  to  get  rid  of  us 
and  kill  us.  But  T  '11  tr3'  to  get  3-ou  sent  to  Toulon  ; 
there  3'ou  can  easil3'  escape,  and  come  back  to  Paris, 
where  I  will  set  3'ou  up  in  some  nice  little  business." 

A  sigh  such  as  those  inflexible  walls  had  seldom 
heard,  —  a  sigh  of  happiness  for  deliverance  beat  upon 
the  stone,  which  echoed  back  the  sound  to  the  ears  of 
the  bewildered  Bibi-Lupin. 


288  The  Last  I)icarnatlon  of  Vautrin. 

"  See  the  result  of  the  absolution  that  I  have  prom- 
ised him,"  said  Jacques  Collin  to  the  detective.  "These 
Corsicans,  monsieur,  are  full  of  faith  I  But  he  is  as  in- 
nocent of  this  crime  as  a  child  unborn  ;  and  I  shall  now 
attempt  to  save  him." 

"  God  be  with  you,  monsieur  I'abbe/'  said  Theodore 
in  French. 


TJiG  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  289 


VI. 


MADEMOISELLE    COLLIN    APPEARS    UPON   THE    SCENE. 

Trompe-la-Mort,  more  priestl>'  than  ever,  hastened 
out  of  the  condemned  cell  and  through  the  corridor, 
to  the  director's  office,  where  he  pla3ed  horror  to  Mon- 
sieur Gault  most  effectively. 

"  Monsieur  le  directeur,  the  3'oung  man  is  innocent; 
be  has  revealed  to  me  the  guilty  person.  He  was  about 
to  die  for  a  point  of  honor,  like  a  true  Corsican!  I 
pray  3'ou  ask  the  attorne3'-general  to  grant  me  an  in- 
terview for  five  minutes.  Monsieur  de  Granville  will 
not  refuse  to  listen  immediatel3'  to  a  Spanish  priest 
who  has  suffered  so  much  himself  from  the  mistakes 
of  French  law." 

"  I  will  go  at  once,"  replied  Monsieur  Gault,  to  the 
great  astonishment  of  all  present. 

"  But,"  said  Jacques  Collin,  "  will  3-ou  kindly  have 
me  sent  back  to  that  3'ard  in  the  mean  time.  There 
is  a  man  there  who  had  begun  to  confess  himself  wlien 
you  sent  for  me  ;  I  desire  to  complete  his  conversion. 
Ah  !   those  men  have  hearts." 

This  speech  produced  a  stir  among  all  the  spectators 
of  the  extraordinary  scene.     The  gendarmes,  the  turn- 

19 


290  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

ke3's,  the  jailers,  Sanson  himself,  and  his  assistant  who 
was  waiting  to  "  set  up  the  machine,"  as  the  prison 
term  is,  —  these  persons,  whom  all  ordinary  emotions 
left  untouched,  were  moved  by  a  curiosity'  that  is 
readily  conceivable. 

At  this  moment  the  noise  of  an  equipage  with  spir- 
ited horses,  pulled  up  on  the  quay  before  the  outer 
gate  of  the  Conciergerie,  made  itself  heard.  The  car- 
riage door  was  opened,  and  the  steps  let  down  in  a 
manner  to  imply  the  arrival  of  a  personage  of  impor- 
tance. Presentl}'  a  lady  waving  a  blue  paper  presented 
herself  at  the  gate  of  the  guichet,  followed  by  a  foot- 
man and  a  chasseur.  She  was  dressed  in  black,  but 
ver}'  magnificently  ;  a  veil  was  over  her  bonnet,  and 
she  was  stanching  her  tears  with  an  embroidered 
handkerchief. 

Jacques  Collin  instantly  recognized  Asia,  or  to  give 
the  woman  at  last  her  right  name,  Jacqueline  Collin, 
his  aunt.  This  wicked  old  woman,  worthy  of  her 
nephew,  held  in  her  hand  a  permit  granted  the  even- 
ing before  to  the  waiting-maid  of  the  Duchesse  de 
Maufrigneuse,  on  the  recommendation  of  the  Comte 
de  Serizy,  to  communicate  with  Lucien  de  Rubempre 
and  the  Abbe  Don  Carlos  Herrera  so  soon  as  the  latter 
should  be  released  from  solitary  confinement.  On  this 
order  the  chief  of  the  department  of  prisons  had  writ- 
ten a  few  lines.     The  color  of  the  paper  was  sufficient 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  291 

to  impl}'   its   importance  ;    for  these  permissions,   like 
gratis  tlieatre-tiekets,  differ  in  form  and  color. 

Consequentl}'  the  gate-warder  opened  the  two  iron 
doors,  especial!}'  after  noticing  the  plumed  chasseur^ 
whose  green  and  gold  uniform,  as  dazzling  as  that  of 
a  Russian  general,  announced. an  aristocratic  visitor 
with  a  blazon  that  was  almost  royal. 
'  "Ah!  m}-  dear  abbe,"  cried  the  false  great  lad}*, 
shedding  a  torrent  of  tears  when  she  beheld  tlie  eccle- 
siastic. "  How  could  the}'  put  so  saintly  a  man  here, 
even  for  a  moment?" 

The  director  took  the  permit  and  read  the  words, 
"  On  the  recommendation  of  his  Excellenc}'  the  Comte 
de  Serizy. 

"Ah!  Madame  di  San-Esteban,  Madame  la  mar- 
quise," said  Carlos  Herrera,  '•  what  noble  devotion  !  " 

"Madame,  no  communication  is  allowed  with  the 
prisoners  in  this  place,"  said  the  good  old  Gault. 

And  he  himself  stopped  the  advance  of  the  portly 
mass  of  black  moire  and  lace. 

"  But  at  this  distance,"  said  Jacques  Collin,  "  and  be- 
fore all  present?  "  and  he  cast  a  circular  glance  around 
the  assembh*. 

His  aunt,  whose  dress  must  have  amazed  the  whole 
office,  director,  jailers,  and  gendarmes,  was  redolent  of 
musk.  She  wore,  besides  laces  worth  thousands  of 
francs,   a  black  cashmere  shawl  worth  six  thousand. 


292  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

The  chasseur  paraded  the  court-3'ard  of  the  Conci- 
ergerie  with  all  the  insolence  of  a  lacquey  who  feels 
himself  indispensable  to  a  princess.  He  did  not  speak 
to  the  footman,  who  kept  his  station  near  the  gate 
which  opened  upon  the  quay. 

"What  do  3'ou  wish?  what  am  I  to  do?"  asked 
Madame  di  San  Esteban,  in  the  argot  agreed  upon 
between  the  aunt  and  nephew. 

This  argot  consisted  in  giving  terminations  in  ar  or 
in  or^  or  in  al  or  in  i,  so  as  to  make  all  words,  either 
French  or  argot,  unintelligible.  It  was  the  diplomatic 
cipher  applied  to  language. 

"Put  all  the  letters  in  a  sure  place,  take  the  most 
compromising,  come  back  in  rags  to  the  Salle  des  Pas- 
perdus  and  wait  mj'  orders." 

Asia,  tliat  is,  Jacqueline,  knelt  down  as  if  to  receive 
a  benediction,  and  the  false  abbe  blessed  his  aunt  with 
evangelical  unction. 

"  AclcUo,  marchesa^^^  he  said,  adding  rapidly  in  their 
own  argot :  "  Find  Europe  and  Paccard  with  the  seven 
hundred  thousand  francs  that  they  filched  ;  I  want  them." 

"  There 's  Paccard,"  replied  the  pious  marchesa, 
looking  toward  the  chasseur  witii  tears  in  her  ej'es. 

This  readiness  of  comprehension  brought  not  only 
a  smile,  but  also  an  expression  of  surprise  to  the  face 
of  a  man  wlio  could  no  longer  be  astonished  by  any 
one  but  his  aunt.     The  false  marchesa  turned  toward 


Tlie  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  293 

the  witnesses  of  this  singular  scene  witli  the  manner 
of  a  woman  who  is  accustomed  to  take  a  position  in 
the  world. 

''  He  is  in  despair  at  being  unable  to  attend  the 
obsequies  of  his  child,"  she  said  in  bad  French;  "  for 
this  frightful  mistake  of  the  police  has  brought  to  light 
his  painful  secret.  I  m3'self  am  now  on  my  way  to 
the  mortuar}'  mass.  Here,  monsieur,"  she  added  to 
Monsieur  Gault,  giving  him  a  purse  full  of  gold,  "  is 
something  with  which  to  comfort  the  poor  prisoners." 

"  Famous  move!  "  muttered  her  well-pleased  nephew 
in  her  ear. 

Jacques  Collin  then  followed  the  jailer,  who  took  him 
back  into  the  preau. 

Bidi-Lupin,  in  despair,  having  at  last  managed  to 
attract  the  attention  of  the  gendarme,  to  whom  he 
hemmed  significantl}',  was  now  released  from  the  coii^ 
demned  cell.  But  he  did  not  reach  the  ofBce  in  time 
to  see  the  great  lady,  who  had  by  that  time  disappeared 
in  her  brilliant  equipage. 

"  Three  hundred  halles  [francs]  for  the  prisoners  !  '' 
said  the  head-jailer,  showing  Bibi-Lupin  the  purse  which 
Monsieur  Gault  had  given  to  his  clerk. 

"  Let  me  see,  Monsieur  Jacomety,"  said  Bibi-Lupin. 

The  head  of  the  detective  police  took  the  purse, 
emptied  the  gold  into  his  hand,  and  examined  it 
attentively. 


294  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

"It  is  vQfxWy  gold  !  "  he  said,  "  and  the  purse  is  bla- 
zoned. Ah,  the  scoundrel,  how  strong  he  is !  He  is 
armed  at  all  points  ;  he  ought  to  be  shot  like  a  dog  !  " 

"  Wh}'  so?  "  asked  the  clerk,  taking  back  the  purse. 

"That  woman  is,  no  doubt,  a  thief!"  cried  Bibi- 
Lupin,  stamping  with  rage  on  the  stone  pavement  of 
the  guicJtet. 

These  words  produced  a  sensation  among  the  specta- 
tors grouped  at  a  little  distance  from  Monsieur  Sanson, 
who  still  stood  leaning  with  his  back  against  the  huge 
porcelain  stove  placed  in  the  centre  of  that  vaulted 
hall,  where  he  awaited  the  order  to  make  the  criminal's 
"  toilette  "  and  set  up  the  guillotine  on  the  place  de 
Greve. 

As  soon  as  Jacques  ColHn  re-entered  the  preau,  he 
walked  toward  the  three  faiiandels. 

"  What  have  3'ou  got  ahead  of  you?  "  he  said  to  La 
Pouraille. 

"  I'm  done  for,"  rephed  the  murderer,  whom  Jacques 
Collin  led  aside  into  a  coiner.  "  What  ,1  want  now  is 
a  safe  friend." 

"W^hy?" 

La  Pouraille  related  in  argot  his  various  crimes, 
ending  with  the  details  of  the  murder  and  robbery  of 
the  Crottats. 

"  I  respect  3'ou,"  said  Jacques  Collin  ;  "  the  affair 
was  well  done.  But  you  seem  to  me  to  have  committed 
one  mistake." 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  295 

*' What  was  that?" 

"  The  matter  once  accomi)lished,  3*011  ought  to  have 
got  a  Russian  passport,  disguised  yourself  as  a  Russian 
prince,  bought  a  carriage  with  a  coat  of  arms,  gone 
boldh'  to  a  banker  and  deposited  3'our  gold,  and  asked 
for  a  letter  of  credit  on  Hamburg,  and  then  embarked 
for  Mexico.  With  tw^o  hundred  and  eight}'  thousand 
francs  in  hand,  a  clever  fellow  like  j'ou  could  go  where 
he  chose  and  do  as  he  liked,  you  simpleton  !  " 

"  Ah  !  you  can  have  those  ideas  because  you  are  cldh  / 
you  never  lose  vour  head,  not  vou  !     But  I  —  " 

"  Well,  well,  good  advice  to  a  man  in  your  position 
is  broth  for  the  dead  ! "  replied  Jacques  Collin,  casting 
one  of  his  compelling  glances  on  the  convict. 

"  True,"  said  La  Pouraille,  doubtfully  ;  "  but  give 
me  the  broth  all  the  same.  If  it  can't  nourish  me,  I 
can  make  a  foot-bath  of  it." 

"  Here  you  are  in  tlie  hands  of  the  Cicogne^  with 
five  robberies,  under  aggravated  circumstances,  and 
three  murders  to  answer  for,  —  the  last  of  which  con- 
cerns two  rich  bourgeois.  Jurors  don't  like  to  have 
the  bourgeois  killed.  You  will  certainl}'  be  gerhe  a  la 
l^asse  ;  there  's  not  the  slightest  hope  for  you." 

"  So  the}'  all  tell  me,"  replied  La  Pouraille,  ruefull}'. 

"  M}'  aunt  Jacqueline,  with  whom  I've  just  had  a 
bit  of  a  task  before  the  whole  grejfe,  and  who  is, 
3'ou   know,  la  mere  des  fa?iandels,   told  me  that  the 


296  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

Cicogne  wanted  to  get  rid  of  you   because  3'ou  were 
dangerous." 

"  But,"  said  La  Pouraille,  with  a  naivete  which 
proves  how  imbued  robbers  are  with  a  sense  of  their 
natural  right  to  rob,  "  I  am  rich  now,  why  should  they 
fear  me  an}'  longer?  " 

"  We  have  n't  time  to  talk  philosophy,"  replied 
Jacques  Collin.      "Come  back  to  your  situation  —  " 

"What  do  you  want  to  do  with  me?"  asked  La 
Pouraille,  interrupting  his  dab. 

"  You  shall  see  ;  a  dead  dog  is  worth  something." 

"  For  others,"  said  La  Pouraille. 

"I'll  take  you  into  my  game,"  continued  Jacques 
Collin. 

"That's  something,"  said  the  murderer.  "What 
next?" 

"  I  don't  ask  where  your  money  is,  but  what  you 
want  to  do  with  it?" 

La  Pouraille  watched  the  impenetrable  eye  of  his  ddb 
as  the  latter  continued,  coldly  :  — 

"  Have  3'ou  some  largue  you  love,  or  a  child,  or  a 
fanandel  to  protect?  I  shall  be  at  liberty  very  soon, 
and  I  can  do  everything  for  those  you  wish  to  benefit." 

La  Pouraille  hesitated ;  he  stood  wavering  with  in- 
decision. Jacques  Collin  brought  forward  a  final 
argument. 

"  Your  share  in  our  funds  is  thirty  thousand  francs. 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  297 

Do  you  want  to  leave  it  to  tlie  fanandels^  or  will  you 
give  it  to  some  one  else?  The  money  is  at  hand,  and 
I  can  pay  it  over  to-nigiit  to  any  one  you  name." 

La  Pouraille  let  a  movenient  of  satisfaction  escape 
him. 

"  I  have  him  !  "  thought  Jacques  Collin.  "  But  don't 
dawdle  ;  think  !  "  he  continued,  speaking  into  La  Pou- 
raille's  ear.  '''•  Mon  vieux,  we  haven't  ten  minutes  to 
ourselves.  The  attorney-general  will  send  for  me  ;  I 
am  to  have  a  conference  with  him.  I  hold  him,  that 
man !  I  can  wring  the  neck  of  the  Cicogne  !  I  am 
certain  of  saving  Theodore." 

"  If  you  can  save  Theodore,  m}'  ddb^  3'ou  might 
save  —  " 

"Don't  waste  3'our  spittle,"  said  Jacques  Collin, 
curtly.     "  Make  your  will.'' 

"Well,  then,"  replied  La  Pouraille,  piteously,  "I 
want  to  leave  the  money  to  La  Gonore  —  " 

"  Tiens!  are  you  living  with  the  widow  of  Moise, 
that  Jew  who  was  at  the  head  of  the  rouleurs  (swind- 
lers) of  the  South?"    asked  Jacques  Collin. 

Like  all  great  generals,  Trompe-la-Mort  knew  the 
personnel  of  all  his  troops. 

"  Herself,"  replied  La  Pouraille,  much  flattered. 

"  Prett}'  woman !  "  said  Jacques  Collin,  who  un- 
derstood well  how  to  manage  his  terrible  machines. 
"Your  largue  is  shrewd;   she  knows  what's  what, — • 


298  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

an  accomplished  tbief,  and  honest,  too.  Ha !  so  j'ou 
have  strengthened  yourself  vvitli  La  Gonore,  have  you? 
A  man's  a  fool  to  get  himself  terrer  with  such  a  largue 
as  that.  Idiot !  you  ought  to  have  bought  a  comfort- 
able little  business  and  jogged  on  together.  Et  que 
goupine-t-ellef     (What  is  her  line  of  robber}' ?)  " 

"  She  has  set  up  in  the  rue  Sainte-Barbe,  where  she 
keeps  a  house." 

"And  30U  want  to  make  her  your  heir?  My  dear 
fellow,  that 's  what  all  these  jades  get  out  of  us  when 
we  are  fools  enouoh  to  love  them." 

"But  don't  give  her  anything  till  I'm  tumbled 
over." 

"  Sacredly  not,"  said  Jacques  Collin,  in  a  serious 
tone.      "But  i\\Q  fanandels^  nothing  to  them?" 

"  Nothing;  they  sold  me,"  replied  La  Pouraille 
vindictively. 

"Who  sold  3'ou !  Do  3'ou  want  me  to  revenge 
5'ou?"  asked  Jacques  Collin,  quickh',  endeavoring  to 
rouse  the  last  sentiment  that  makes  such  hearts  as 
these  vibrate  in  crucial  moments.  "  Who  knows,  my 
old  fanandel^  whether  bj^  avenging  3'OU,  I  could  n't 
make  your  peace  with  the    Cicogiief^ 

La  Pouraille  looked  at  his  dab  with  a  stupefied  air 
of  happiness. 

"  But,"  replied  the  dab  to  that  speaking  expression, 
"  I'm  placing  mislocq  just  now  for  Theodore.     After 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  299 

that  farce  succeeds,  I  am  capable  of  much  else  for  ni}' 
friends,  —  and  you  are  a  friend  of  mine,  old  man  !  " 

"  If  I  see  that  you  can  get  that  ceremony  for  poor 
little  Theodore  put  off  only  for  a  time,  I  'II  do  as  you 
wish,   there  ! " 

*' That's  done  aire  ad}' ;  I  am  certain  of  saving  his 
sorhonne  from  the  claws  of  the  Cicogne.  Those  who 
want  to  se  cUsenjlacquer  (get  out  of  this  scrape),  La 
Pouraille,  must  all  grasp  hands.     No  one  can  act  alone." 

* '  That 's  true  !  "    cried  the  murderer. 

Confidence  being  thus  established  and  La  Pouraille's 
faith  in  his  dab  becoming  fanatic,  he  hesitated  no 
longer ;  he  revealed  the  secret  of  his  accomplices,  — 
a  secret  most  carefuU}'  kept  up  to  the  present  time. 
This  was  all  that  Jacques  Collin  wanted  to  know. 

"  Here's  the  halle  (secret),"  said  La  Pouraille. 
"  Ruffard,  Bibi-Lupin's  agent,  went  thirds  with  me  and 
Godet  in  the  poupon  (robbery  long  planned). 

"  Arrachelaine ?  "  cried  Jacques  Collin,  giving  Ruf- 
fard his  galle\'  name. 

''Yes.  The  villains  sold  me  because  I  knew  where 
their  share  was  hidden,  but  they  did  not  know  about 
mine." 

"You  grease  my  boots,  old  fellow!"  said  Jacques 
Collin. 

"  How  so?" 

"Now,"  replied   the   dub,  "see  what  you  gain  by 


oOO  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

trusting  me.  I  make  your  vengeance  a  part  of  the 
game  I  am  going  to  pla}'.  I  don't  ask  to  know  where 
3'our  money  is  ;  you  can  tell  me  that  at  the  last  mo- 
ment ;  but  tell  me  now  all  about  Ruft'ard  and  Godet." 

"  You  are,  and  you  alwa3's  will  be,  our  dab  ;  I  sliall 
have  no  further  secrets  from  you.  My  mone}"  is  in 
the  profonde  (cellar)  of  La  Gonore's  house." 

"Are  not  you  afraid  to  trust  your  larguef' 

"  Yah  !  she  does  n't  know  anything  about  it,"  replied 
La  Pouraille.  "I  made  La  Gonore  drunk, — though 
she  's  a  woman  who  would  n't  sa}'  a  word  la  tete  dans 
la  lunette  (in  the  last  extremity).  But  so  much  gold, 
you  know ! " 

"  Yes,  that  turns  the  milk  of  the  purest  conscience," 
replied  Jacques  Collin. 

^^  So  I  could  work  without  a  luisant  (eye)  upon  me  ; 
the  hens  were  all  roosting.  I  buried  the  gold  three 
feet  down  behind  the  wine  bottles  ;  and  I  put  a  layer 
of  cobblestones  and  mortar  above  it. 

"Good!"  ejaculated  Jacques  Collin,  "Where  did 
the  other  two  hide  theirs?" 

"  Ruffard  has  his  fade  (share  of  a  robbery)  at  La 
Gonore's,  in  the  poor  woman's  own  room  ;  that 's  how 
he  holds  her ;  he  can  prove  she  is  an  accomplice  in 
receivino;  goods  and  send  her  to  Saint-Lazare  for  the 
rest  of  her  days." 

"  Ah  !  the  scoundrel !  How  the  raille  (police)  trains 
3'ou  to  rob  !  "   cried  Jacques  Collin. 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  301 

"  Godet  has  put  his  fade  with  his  sister,  a  clear- 
starcher,  an  honest  girl  who  might  get  five  years 
under  lock  and  key  without  knowing  wh}'.  He  took 
up  the  tiles  of  the  floor,  put  the  money  under,  and 
cleared  out." 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  want  of  you?  "  said  Jacques 
CoUin,  suddenlj-,  casting  one  of  his  magnetic  glances 
on  La  Pouraille. 

"What?" 

"I  want  you  to  take  upon  3'our  own  shoulders 
Theodore's  affair." 

La  Pouraille  gave  a  singular  shrug  with  those  shoul- 
ders, but  instantly  returned  to  a  posture  of  obedience 
under  the  fixed  glance  of  the  ddh's  eye. 

"What!  you  snort  already?  Do  you  mean  to 
thwart  my  game?  Four  murders  or  three,  what's  the 
diflTerence  ?  " 

"  Not  much,  perhaps." 

"  B3'  the  meg  of  the  fanandels  !  you  have  n't  any 
raisine  in  j'our  verinichels  (blood  in  your  veins).  And 
I,  who  was  thinking  of  saving  you  !  " 

''How?" 

"Idiot!  if  you  offer  to  return  the  money  to  the 
family,  you  '11  get  off  with  the  pre  for  life.  I  would  n't 
give  a  straw  for  your  sorbojuw  if  the  money  is  kept ; 
but  don't  you  see,  you  fool,  that  you  have  the  whole 
seven  hundred  thousand  francs  in  your  hands." 


302  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.' 

''''  Dab,  dab/"  cried  La  Pouraille,  in   an  ecstasy  of 

joy. 

''  And  besides  that,"  continued  Jacques  Collin,  "  we 
throw  the  murders  upon  Ruffard,  and  that  will  put  an 
end  to  Bibi-Lupin.     I  have  him  I  " 

La  Pouraille  stood  stupefied  at  the  idea,  rigid  as  a 
statue,  his  eyes  widening.  In  prison  for  the  last  three 
months,  about  to  appear  before  the  court  of  assizes, 
advised  by  his  friends  in  La  Force,  to  whom  he  had  not 
spoken  of  his  accomplices,  he  was  so  wholly  without 
hope  after  the  preliminar}'  examination  into  his  crimes 
that  such  a  plan  of  defence  had  never  entered  his  im- 
prisoned mind.  This  flicker  of  hope  now  made  him 
almost  imbecile. 

"  Can  Ruffard  and  Godet  have  fait  la  7ioce  (made  a 
debauch  of  it)  ?  Do  you  think  their  jaunets  (yellow 
boys)  have  breathed  the  air?" 

'' The}' dare  not.  The  villains  are  waiting  till  I'm 
mown,"  replied  La  Pouraille.  "  That  's  what  my 
largue  sent  me  word  b}'  La  Biffe  when  she  came  to 
see  Le  Biffon." 

"  Well,  we  shall  have  their  fades  within  twenty-four 
hours!"  cried  Jacques  Collin.  "Those  scoundrels 
can't  make  restitution  as  you  can  ;  you  '11  get  off  as 
white  as  snow,  and  they  '11  be  red  with  all  the  blood.  I 
shall  make  30U  out  an  honest  fellow  misled  b}'  them. 
I  have  enough  of  your  mone}'  in  my  hands  to  bu}'  you 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vaiitrin.  303 

an  alibi  on  the  other  charges,  and  once  in  the  old  pre 
—  for,  of  course,  30U  ^ill  have  to  go  back  there  —  you 
can  manage  to  escape.  It  is  a  vile  life,  to  be  sure,  but 
at  anj'  rate  it  is  life." 

La  Pouraille's  eyes  expressed  an  inward  delirium. 

"  Ah,  old  fellow  !  "  said  Jacques  Collin,  intoxicating 
his  fanandel  with  hope,  ''  seven  hundred  thousand 
francs  is  power  —  " 

''Dub,  dab!'' 

"I'll  dazzle  the  attorne3'-general  with  it.  ITa ! 
Ruffard  dansera  (shall  die  of  this)  ;  he  's  a  raille  to 
demolish.     Bibi-Lupin  is  fried  !  " 

''  Then  it 's  settled  !  "  cried  La  Pouraille,  with  savage 
joy.     "  Order,  and  I  obej." 

He  pressed  Jacques  Collin  b}'  the  arm,  with  tears  in 
his  eyes,  for  it  now  seemed  possible  to  him  to  save  his 
head. 

"But  that's  not  all,"  said  Jacques  Collin.  The 
Cicogne  is  slow  of  digestion,  especiall}'  if  there  's  a 
return  of  fever  (revelation  of  new  facts).  The  thing 
to  be  done  now  is  to  servir  de  belle  une  largne  (bring  a 
false  charge  against  a  woman)." 

"  How?  and  what 's  the  good  of  that?  " 

"  Help  rae,  and  you  shall  see,"  replied  Trompe-la- 
Mort. 

Jacques  Collin  then  related  biiefly  the  circumstances 
of  the  crime  committed  bj'  Theodore,  and  showed  La 


304  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

Pouraille  the  necessity  of  finding  some  woman  who 
would  consent  to  play  the  part  of  Ginetta.  Then  he 
went  to  Le  Biffon,  followed  by  La  Pouraille,  now 
supremely  joyful. 

"  I  know  how  you  love  La  Biffe,"  said  Jacques  Collin. 

The  glance  cast  by  Le  Biffon  was  a  dreadful  poem. 

"  What  will  she  do  while  3'ou  are  at  the  pre?  " 

A  tear  moistened  Le  Biffon's  ferocious  eyes. 

"  Well,  suppose  I  get  her  locked  up  at  the  Madelon- 
nettes  [female  prison]  for  a  year,  which  will  just  about 
cover  the  time  of  your  trial,  your  return  to' the  pre^  and 
your  escape?  " 

"  You  can't  do  that  miracle  ;  she  is  niqiie  de  mieche 
(not  halves,  without  complicity),"  said  La  Biffe's  lover. 

"  Ah,  m}'  Biffon  !  "  cried  La  Pouraille,  "our  dab  is 
more  powerful  than  meg." 

"  What  is  your  password  with  her?  "  asked  Jacques 
Collin,  with  the  assurance  of  a  master  who  will  brook 
no  refusal. 

"  Sorgue  a  Pantin  (night  in  Paris)  ;  sa3'  that,  and 
she  '11  know  you  come  from  me.  And  if  you  want  her 
to  obej'  you,  show  her  a  thune  de  cinq  balles  (five-franc 
pioce),  and  say  the  word  '  Tondif.'  " 

"  She  will  be  condemned  at  La  Pouraille's  trial,  and 
released  for  confessing  the  matter  after  a  year  of  ombre 
(shade,  prison),"  said  Collin,  sententiousl}',  with  a 
glance  at  La  Pouraille. 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vaidrin.  305 

La  Pouraille  understood  without  farther  words  the 
plan  of  his  duh,  and  promised  him  b}-  a  look  to  decide 
Le  Biffon  to  help  it  by  persuading  La  Biffe  to  accept  a 
false  complicit}'  in  the  crime  he  was  about  to  take  upon 
his  own  shoulders. 

"  Adieu,  my  sons.  You  will  soon  hear  that  I  have 
saved  Theodore  from  Chariot's  clutches,"  said  Trompe- 
la-Mort.  "■  Yes,  Chariot  was  in  the  office  with  his 
men  waiting  to  make  Theodore's  '  toilette,'  as  I  passed 
through  it  Tliere !  "  he  added  presently,  "  they  are 
coming  to  fetch  me  now  ;  the  dub  of  the  Cicogne  (at- 
torney-general)  has  sent  for  me." 

A  jailer  came  through  the  gate  and  made  a  sign  to 
this  extraordinary  man,  to  whom  the  danger  of  the 
3'oung  Corsican  and  the  idea  of  being  able  to  save 
him,  had  restored  the  savage  power  with  which  he  had 
warred  against  societj'  for  a  lifetime. 

Here  is  the  proper  moment  to  sa}'  that  when  the 
body  of  Lucien  was  taken  from  him,  after  those  hours 
of  mental  torture,  Jacques  Collin  had  decided  b}'  a 
mighty  resolution,  to  attempt  a  last  incarnation,  not 
into  a  being  as  in  Lucien,  but  into  a  thing.  He  took 
the  course  which  Napoleon  so  fatal!}'  took  when  he 
entered  the  boat  that  carried  him  to  the  "  Bellero- 
phon."  B3'  a  singular  combination  of  circumstances 
all  things  aided  this  genius  of  evil  and  corruption  in 
his  enterprise. 

20 


306  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 


VII. 


MADAME    CAMUSOT   PAYS    THREE    VISITS. 

Though  the  unexpected  denouement  of  this  criminal 
life  ma3'  lose  somewhat  of  the  marvellous  (which  in  our 
day  cannot  be  presented  except  by  improbabilities 
which  the  mind  rejects),  it  is  necessar}',  before  we 
enter,  with  Jacques  Collin,  the  office  of  the  attorne}"- 
general,  to  follow  Madame  Camusot  in  the  visits  which 
she  made  to  certain  persons  while  these  events  were 
taking  place  at  the  Conciergerie.  One  of  the  obliga- 
tions which  the  historian  of  manners  and  morals  should 
never  disregard  is  that  of  not  spoiling  truth  by  ar- 
rangements apparently  dramatic,  above  all  when  truth 
has  taken  pains  to  become  romantic.  The  social  nature, 
in  Paris  especiall}',  involves  such  chances  and  changes, 
such  entanglement  of  phases  and  events,  all  so  capri- 
cious, that  the  imagination  of  tale-makers  is  constanth- 
surpassed.  The  boldness  of  the  Real  produces  com- 
binations that  are  forbidden  to  Art ;  and  so  unreal  and 
perhaps  indecent  do  the}'  often  seem  that  a  writer  is 
forced  to  soften,  prune,  and  even  expurgate  them. 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  307 

Madame  Camiisot  endeavored  to  make  her  morning 
toilet  one  of  good  taste,  —  a  rather  difRcnlt  matter  for 
the  wife  of  a  judge  who  had  lived  the  greater  part  of 
her  life  in  the  provinces.  It  was  important,  however, 
not  to  lay  herself  open  to  the  criticism  of  the  Mar- 
quise d'Espard  and  the  Duchesse  de  Maufrignense, 
whom  she  proposed  to  visit  between  eight  and  nine 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  Amelie-Cecile  Camusot,  though 
nee  Thirion,  let  us  hasten  to  sa}',  succeeded  partiall}'. 
Is  not  that,  in  the  matter  of  female  dress,  to  fail  twice? 

People  little  know  the  utility  of  Parisian  women  to 
ambitious  men  of  all  kinds ;  the}'  are  as  necessar}'  in 
the  great  world  as  they  are  in  the  world  of  robbers, 
where,  as  we  have  just  seen,  the}'  play  an  enormous 
part.  For  instance,  suppose  a  man  to  be  forced  to 
speak  within  a  given  time  to  that  all-powerful  individ- 
ual under  the  Restoration,  the  Keeper  of  the  Seals, 
or  else  to  be  pushed  back  in  the  arena  and  remain  in 
obscurity.  Take  a  man  in  the  most  favorable  circum- 
stances, —  a  judge.  He  is  obliged  to  get  speech  with  the 
head  of  a  department,  or  a  private  secretary,  or  the  gen- 
eral secretary,  and  prove  to  him  that  there  is  some  real 
reason  why  he  should  have  an  immediate  audience. 
The  Keeper  of  the  Seals  is  never  visible  at  a  moment's 
notice.  In  the  middle  of  the  day,  if  he  is  not  at  the 
Chamber,  he  is  at  a  council  of  ministers,  or  signing 
papers,  or  giving  audience.     In  the  morning  he  sleeps, 


308  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

no  one  knows  where.  In  the  evening  he  has  both  his 
pubhc  and  his  private  avocations.  If  all  judges  could 
claim  audiences  under  any  pretext  whatever  the  chief 
law  officer  would  be  overwhelmed.  The  purpose  and 
expedienc}'  of  an  interview  is  therefore  subjected  to  the 
judgment  of  an  intermediarj'  power,  who  becomes  an 
obstacle,  a  door  to  open,  even  if  he  is  not  already 
pledged  to  some  other  competitor.  But  a  woman ! 
she  goes  in  search  of  another  woman  ;  she  enters  even 
bedrooms  immediately ;  she  awakens  the  curiosit}'  of 
the  mistress,  sometimes  that  of  the  maid,  —  if  the  mis- 
tress appears  to  be  under  the  spur  of  some  great  in- 
terest or  pressing  necessit}'.  Call  female  power  the 
Marquise  d'Espard ;  this  woman  writes  a  little  per- 
fumed note  which  her  footman  carries  to  the  minister's 
valet.  The  minister  is  caught  b}^  the  billet  as  soon 
as  he  wakes,  and  he  reads  it  at  once.  If  he  has  affairs 
of  interest  on  hand,  he  is  delighted  to  pay  a  visit  to 
one  of  the  queens  of  Paris,  a  power  of  the  faubourg 
Saint-Germain,  one  of  the  favorites  of  Madame,  or  of 
the  dauphiness,  or  the  king.  Casimir  Perier,  the  only 
real  minister  the  revolution  of  Juh'  produced,  left  all 
to  pa}'  a  visit  to  a  former  first  gentleman  of  the  Bed- 
chamber to  Charles  X.  This  theor}'  explains  the  re- 
sult of  Madame  Camusot's  visits. 

"  Madame,  Madame  Camusot  on  a  pressing  matter, 
about  which  madame  knows/'  said  the  waiting-maid  of 


Hie  Last  Incarnation  of  VaiUrin.  309 

the  Marquise  cl'Espard  to  her  mistress  whom  she  sup- 
posed to  be  awake. 

The  marquise  called  out  that  Madame  Camusot  was 
to  be  introduced  at  once.  The  judge's  wife  obtained 
immediate  attention  when  she  opened  her  business  in 
these  words :  — 

"  Madame  la  marquise,  we  are  ruined  for  having 
avenged  you." 

"How  is  that,  m}'  dear?"  replied  the  marquise, 
looking  at  Madame  Camusot  in  the  half-light  produced 
b}'  the  opening  of  her  bedroom  door.  "  Wh}',  you  are 
charming  this  morning,  with  that  pretty  liltle  bonnet ! 
Where  do  you  get  such  shapes  ?  " 

"  Madame,  you  are  very  good.  But  do  you  know 
that  the  manner  in  which  Camusot  examined  Lucien  de 
Rubempre  reduced  the  3'oung  man  to  despair,  and  he 
has  hanged  himself  in  prison?" 

"  What  will  Madame  de  Serizy  do?  "  cried  the  mar- 
quise, pretending  ignorance  in  order  to  have  the  matter 
told  to  her  again. 

"  Alas,  they  say  she  is  going  mad  !  "  replied  Amelie. 
"Ah,  madame  !  if  you  would  onlj' ask  the  Keeper  of 
the  Seals  to  summon  m}'  husband  from  the  Palais  im- 
mediatel}',  b}'  a  courier,  the  minister  would  hear  strange 
mysteries  which  he  would  certainh'  wish  to  tell  to  the 
king.  In  that  way  Camusot's  enemies  will  be  reduced 
to  silence." 


310  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

"  Who  are  Camusot's  enemies?"  asked  the  marquise. 

"  Wh}',  the  attornej'-general,  and  now  the  Comte  de 
Sarizy." 

a  YQYy  good,  my  dear,"  replied  Madame  d'Espard, 
who  owed  her  defeat  in  her  shameful  suit  against  her 
husband  to  Messieurs  de  Granville  and  de  Serizy. 
"  I  '11  defend  you.  I  don't  forget  either  my  friends  or 
my  enemies." 

She  rang,  ordered  the  curtains  opened,  and  a  flood  of 
light  poured  into  the  room.  Then  she  asked  for  her 
desk,  and  rapidl}^  scribbled  a  little  note. 

"  Let  Godet  take  a  horse  and  carr}'  this  note  at  once 
to  the  Chancellerie  ;  there  is  no  answer,"  she  said  to 
her  maid. 

The  maid  left  the  room  hastily,  but  she  lingered  out- 
side the  door  for  a  few  moments. 

"You  say  there  are  mysteries?"  said  Madame  d'Es- 
pard. "  Tell  me  about  them,  ni}'  dear.  Clotilde  de 
Grandlieu  is  mixed  up  in  the  affair,  isn't  she?" 

"  Madame  la  marquise  will  hear  all  from  his  Excel- 
lenc}^ ;  my  husband  has  told  me  nothing,  except  that 
he  had  incurred  great  danger.  It  would  be  better  for 
us  that  Madame  de  Serizy  should  die  than  remain 
insane." 

"  Poor  woman  !  "  said  the  marquise  ;  "  but  she  was 
alread}'  half-crazj'." 

Women  of  the  world  by  their  various  ways  of  pro- 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  VaiUinn.  311 

nouncing  the  same  words  will  reveal  to  attentive  ob- 
servers the  infinite  extent  and  variation  of  those  notes 
of  music.  The  soul  passes  wholly  into  the  voice 
as  well  as  into  the  eyes ;  it  imprints  itself  on  the 
air  as  in  the  light,  —  the  two  elements  in  which  the 
larynx  and  the  ej'es  have  pla}'.  In  the  accent  of  those 
words,  "  Poor  woman !  "  the  marquise  revealed  the 
contentment  of  her  satisfied  hatred,  the  happiness  of 
triumph.  Ah,  how  many  evils  she  had  wished  to 
Lucien's  protectress !  Vengeance,  which  survives  the 
death  of  a  hated  object,  and  is  never  quenched,  inspires 
gloom}'  fear.  Madame  Camusot,  whose  own  nature 
was  harsh,  spiteful,  and  quarrelsome,  was  shocked. 
Finding  nothing  to  say,  she  was  silent. 

"  Madame  de  Maufrigneuse  told  me  that  Leontine 
had  gone  to  the  prison,"  continued  Madame  d'Espard. 
"  The  dear  duchess  was  in  despair,  for  she  is  weak 
enough  to  be  fond  of  Madame  de  Seriz}-.  But  that 's 
conceivable,  for  the}-  both  adored  that  little  fool  of  a 
Lucien ;  nothing  unites,  or  disunites,  two  women  like 
paying  their  devotions  at  the  same  altar." 

"The}'  tried  their  best  to  save  Lucien,  madame ; 
and  it  is  because  my  husband  did  his  duty  that  this 
danger  threatens  us.  But  he  will  tell  all  to  the  Keeper 
of  the  Seals.  An  examining  judge  is  compelled  to 
question  prisoners  privately  within  a  time  limited  by 
law.     It  was  absolutely  necessary  to  examine  Lucien ; 


312  The  Last  Tiicarnation  of  Vautrin. 

the  miserable  youth  did  not  understand  that  the  inquiry 
was  only  formal,  and  he  instantly  made  confession." 

"  He  was  always  a  fool,  and  very  insolent,"  said 
Madame  d'Espard,  curtly. 

The  wife  of  the  judge  kept  silence. 

"  Though  we  lost  our  case  in  the  matter  of  the  in- 
junction, it  was  not  Camusot's  fault,  and  I  shall  never 
forget  his  services,"  said  Madame  d'Espard,  after  a 
pause.  "  It  was  Lucien,  and  Messieurs  de  Serizy, 
Bauvan,  and  Granville,  who  defeated  us.  With  time, 
God  will  be  on  my  side.  See  !  already  those  people  are 
unhapp3'.  Now,  don't  worry  yourself.  I  will  send  the 
Chevalier  d'Espard  to  the  Keeper  of  the  Seals  to  hasten 
him  in  sending  for  your  husband,  if  you  think  it 
useful  —  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  madame  !  " 

"  Listen  !  "  said  the  marquise.  "  I  promise  you  the 
decoration  of  the  Legion  of  honor  immediatel}',  — 
to-morrow !  That  will  be  a  public  testimony  to  your 
husband's  conduct  in  this  affair.  Yes,  it  will  be  an 
additional  blow  on  Lucien  ;  it  will  show  that  he  was 
guilty.  People  don't  hang  themselves  for  pleasure ! 
Well,  adieu,  my  dear." 

Ten  minutes  later  Madame  Cam u sot  was  entering 
the  bedroom  of  the  beautiful  Diane  de  Maufrigneuse, 
who  was  not  asleep,  though  she  had  gone  to  bed  at  one 
o* clock.     However  insensible  to  feeling  duchesses  may 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  313 

be,  these  women,  even  if  their  hearts  are  cased  in 
stucco,  cannot  behold  a  friend  in  the  paroxysms  of 
madness  without  receivmg  a  most  painful  impression. 
Moreover,  the  intimacy  between  Lucien  and  Diane, 
though  slackened  for  the  last  eighteen  months,  had  left 
memories  enough  in  the  mind  of  the  duchess  to  make 
his  dreadful  death  a  terrible  shock  to  her.  Diane  had 
seen  a  vision  all  night  long  of  that  beautiful  being,  so 
charming,  so  poetic,  who  knew  so  well  how  to  make 
love,  hanging,  as  Leontine  had  described  him  to  her 
with  the  tones  and  gestures  of  delirium.  She  herself 
had  eloquent,  electrifying  letters  from  Lucien,  compar- 
able to  those  written  by  Mirabeau  to  Sophie,  but  more 
literary,  more  carefully  composed  ;  for  Lucien's  letters 
were  dictated  b\'  the  most  violent  of  all  passions,  — 
vanity  ! 

•"'  And  he  died  in  a  vile  prison  !  "  she  was  saying  to 
herself,  clasping  the  letters  in  her  hands  with  horror,  as 
her  maid  softl}'  tapped  on  the  bedroom  door. 

''•  Madame  Camusot,  on  a  matter  of  great  impor- 
tance, which  concerns  Madame  la  duchesse,"  said  the 
woman. 

Diane  sat  upright,  much  startled. 

''  Oh  !  "  she  said,  looking  at  AmeUe,  who  assumed  a 
face  of  anxietj'  as  she  glanced  at  the  papers  in  Diane's 
hands,  — oh,  I  know  vv^hat  30U  are  here  for!  My  let- 
ters !  3'es,  my  letters  1  " 


314  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

And  she  fell  back  upon  the  sofa.  She  suddenh*  re- 
membered having  replied  to  Lucien  in  his  own  kej', 
chanting  the  poes}^  of  the  man  as  he  had  chanted  the 
o-lories  of  the  woman  ;  and  in  what  dithyrambics  ! 

"  Alas,  3'es,  madame  !  and  I  have  come  to  save  you 
from  their  consequences.  Recover  yourself,  dress 
quickly,  and  let  us  go  to  the  Duchesse  de  Grandlieu  ; 
fortunatel}'  for  you,  you  are  not  the  only  one  compro- 
mised in  this  matter." 

"  But  Leontine  burned  up  yesterda}^  at  the  Palais  all 
the  letters  seized  among  poor  Lucien's  papers,  —  at 
least,  so  I  was  told." 

"  But,  madame,  Lucien  had  a  double  in  Jacques 
Collin,"  cried  the  judge's  wife.  "  You  forget  that 
wicked  companionship,  which  was  the  only  cause, 
really,  of  the  death  of  that  charming  and  regrettable 
young  man.  That  Machiavelli  of  the  galleys  has  not 
lost  his  head.  Monsieur  Camusot  is  certain  from  some- 
thing that  occurred  that  this  monster  keeps  in  some 
safe  place  the  most  compromising  of  the  letters  ad- 
dressed to  his  —  " 

"  Friend,"  said  the  duchess,  quickly.  "  You  are 
right,  my  dear ;  we  must  go  and  take  counsel  with  the 
Grandlieus.  We  are  all  interested  in  the  affair ;  and 
Monsieur  de  Serizy  will  lend  us  a  hand." 

Danger  has,  as  we  saw  in  the  scenes  at  the  Con- 
ciergerie,   a  virtue  over  the  soul  as  great  as  that  of 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  315 

powerful  reagents  upon  the  body  ;  it  is  a  moral  Voltaic 
batter3\  Perliaps  tlie  day  is  not  far  distant  when  some 
discoverer  will  seize  the  method  by  whicli  feeling  con- 
denses itself  cliemicall}'  into  fluid,  —  possibl}-  that  of 
electricit}'. 

Diane  found  her  garments,  and  went  about  her 
toilet  with  the  celerit}'  of  a  grisette  who  acts  as  her 
own  waiting-maid.  This  was  so  surprising  that  the 
duchess's  maid  stood  motionless  for  a  moment  watch- 
ing her  mistress  in  her  cliemise,  which  allowed  the 
judge's  wife  to  see  through  a  mist  of  transparent  linen 
a  white  bod}-  as  perfect  as  that  of  Canova's  Venus.  It 
was  like  a  jewel  in  its  tissue  paper. 

"  You  are  the  most  beautiful  woman  I  have  ever 
seen  !  "  cried  Amelie. 

"  Madame  has  n't  her  equal,"  said  the  maid. 

"  Nonsense,  Josette  !  hold  your  tongue,"  said  the 
duchess.  "  Have  you  a  carriage  here?"  she  asked  of 
Madame  Camusot,  as  she  finished  dressing.  "  Come, 
my  dear ;  we  will  talk  as  we  drive  along ; "  and  tlie 
duchess  ran  down  the  great  staircase  of  the  hotel  de 
Cadignan,  putting  on  her  gloves  as  she  went  along,  —  a 
thing  that  was  never  before  seen. 

"  To  the  h6tel  de  Grandlieu,  and  quickly,"  she  said 
to  one  of  her  servants,  signing  to  him  to  get  up 
behind. 

The  footman  hesitated,  for  the  vehicle  was  a  hackney- 
coach. 


316  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

"  Ah  !  Madame  la  duchesse,  yf\\y  did  n't  you  tell  me 
that  young  man  had  letters  from  you  ?  If  I  had  known 
that,  Camusot  would  have  acted  ver}-  differently." 

"I  entirely  forgot  it/'  replied  the  duchess,  "Leon- 
tine's  condition  has  so  filled  mj-  mind.  The  poor 
woman  was  half-crazy  before  3'esterda3',  and  you  can 
imagine  the  effect  upon  her  of  that  fatal  event.  Ah, 
m}'  dear,  what  a  morning  we  had !  We  were  dragged, 
both  of  us,  by  a  horrid  old  woman  —  an  old-clothes 
dealer,  but  a  maitresse-femme  —  into  that  evil-smelling, 
blood}'  place  the}'  call  tlie  palace  of  Justice.  I  could  n't 
help  saying  to  her,  '  I  feel  like  falling  on  my  knees,  and 
crying  out,  as  Madame  de  Nucingen  did  in  one  of  those 
frightful  storms  of  the  Mediterranean,  "O  God!  save 
me  now,  if  never  again  !  "  '  Certainly,  these  last  two 
days  will  shorten  my  life !  How  silly  we  are  to  write 
letters  !  But  then,  one  has  a  heart,  and  we  get  pages 
which  set  it  on  fire  through  the  eyes  ;  it  flames  up, 
prudence  flies  away,  and  we  answer  —  " 

"  Why  answer  when  you  can  speak?  "  said  Madame 
Camusot. 

"Oh,"  said  the  ducliess,  proudly,  "it  is  so  fine  to 
commit  one's  self!     That's  a  pleasure  of  the  soul." 

"  Beautiful  women,"  said  Madame  Camusot,  mod- 
estly, "  are  excusable  ;  they  have  more  occasions  than 
we  to  compromise  themselves." 

The  duchess  laimhed. 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  317 

"Yes,  we  are  much  too  generous,"  she  said.  "In 
future  I  shall  do  as  that  horrid  Madame  d'Espard 
does." 

"  What  is  that?  "  asked  Araelie,  with  curiosit}'. 

"  She  writes  a  tliousand  love-letters — " 

"  As  many  as  that !  "  cried  Madame  Camusot,  inter- 
rupting the  duchess. 

"  Yes,  but  there  is  n't  a  compromising  phrase  in  the 
whole  of  them." 

"You  would  be  incapable  of  such  coldness/'  re- 
sponded Amelie. 

"  But  I  have  vowed  never  again  to  write  letters. 
In  fact,  I  never  did  write,  in  all  m}'  life,  except  to  that 
unhapp}'  Lucien,  I  shall  preserve  his  letters  as  long 
as  I  live  !  M3'  dear,  the}'  are  fire  itself,  —  and  one 
wants  that  sort  of  thing  sometimes." 

"But  suppose  the}' are  found?"  said  the  Camusot, 
with  a  frightened  gesture. 

"Oh!  1  should  sav  thev  were  parts  of  a  novel.  I 
copied  them,  my  dear,  and  burned  the  originals." 

"  Oh,  madame  !  as  a  reward  for  v^y  little  services 
let  me  read  them." 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  will,"  said  the  duchess.  "  And 
then  you  '11  see  that  he  did  not  write  in  the  same  way 
to  Leontine." 

The  last  words  were  the  woman,  — the  woman  of  all 
times  and  all  countries. 


318  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

Like  the  frog  in  La  Fontaine's  fable,  Madame 
Camusot's  skin  was  bursting  with  pleasure  at  the  honor 
of  entering  the  Grandlieu  mansion  in  company  with 
the  beautiful  and  famous  Uiane  de  Maufrigneuse.  She 
was  about  to  form  one  of  those  connections  so  ne- 
cessary to  ambition.  Already  she  heard  herself  called 
"  Madame  la  presidente."  She  felt  the  ineffable  joy 
of  triumphing  over  immense  obstacles,  the  cliief  of 
which  was  the  incapacity  of  her  husband,  secret  as 
yet  to  others,  but  well  known  to  her.  To  make  an 
inferior  man  a  success !  this,  to  a  woman  as  it  is  to 
kings,  is  a  pleasure  that  seduces  great  actors,  that  of 
acting  a  bad  play  for  the  hundredth  time.  It  is,  as  we 
may  say,  the  intoxication  of  egotism,  the  saturnalia  of 
power !  Power  cannot  prove  its  force  to  itself  unless 
by  the  singular  abuse  of  crowning  some  absurdit}^  with 
the  palm  of  success,  and  in  that  way  insulting  genius, 
which  is  the  only  force  which  absolute  power  cannot 
attain.  The  promotion  of  the  horse  of  Caligula,  that 
imperial  farce,  has  had,  and  ever  will  have,  innumer- 
able representations. 

In  a  few  moments  Diane  and  Amelie  had  passed 
from  the  elegant  disorder  of  the  beautiful  Diane's  bed- 
room, to  the  correctness  of  a  severe  and  grandiose  lux- 
nry  in  the  home  of  the  Duchesse  de  Grandlieu.  That 
extremely  pious  Portuguese  lad}'  alwa3's  rose  at  eight 
in  the  mornins:  to  hear  mass  in   the  little  church   of 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  319 

Sainte-Valere,  a  cbapc4  of  Saint-Thomas  cVAquin,  thon 
standing  on  the  esplanade  of  the  Invalides.  The  con- 
gregation of  the  little  chapel,  which  is  now  demolished, 
has  removed  to  the  rue  de  Bourgogne,  while  awaiting 
the  erection  of  a  gothic  church,  which  is  to  be,  they 
say,  dedicated  to  Sainte-Clotilde. 

At  the  first  words  whispered  into  the  Duchesse  de 
Grandlieu's  ear  b}'  Diane  de  Maufrigneuse,  tliat  excel- 
lent woman  rose  and  went  into  the  duke's  stud}',  from 
which  she  soon  returned  followed  by  her  husband.  The 
duke  gave  Madame  Camusot  one  of  those  rapid  looks 
b}'  which  great  seigneurs  analyze  a  whole  existence 
and  often  the  soul  itself.  Amelie's  costume  aided  him 
not  a  little  in  penetrating  that  bourgeoise  life  from 
Mantes  to  Alencon,  and  from  Alen9on  to  Paris. 

Ah  !  if  the  judge's  wife  had  been  aware  of  this  fAc- 
ult}'  of  dukes,  she  could  not  have  borne  graciousl}'  that 
politely  ironical  glance,  in  which  happily  she  saw  noth- 
ing but  politeness.  Ignorance  shares  the  privileges  of 
shrewdness. 

"  This  is  Madame  Camusot,  the  daughter  of  Thirion, 
one  of  the  cabinet  ushers,"  said  the  duchesse  to  her 
husband. 

The   duke   bowed  very  politely,    and    his   face    lost* 
something  of  its  gravit}'.     His  valet,  for  whom  he  had 
rung,  presented  hnnself. 

"  Go  to  the  rue  Honore-Chevalier ;   take  a  carriage. 


320  The  Last  Incar nation  of  Vautrin. 

Ring  at  a  small  door  at  number  10.  You  will  sa}'  to 
tlie  servant  who  opens  the  door  that  I  beg  his  master 
to  come  here  ;  if  tlie  master  is  at  home,  you  will  bring 
him  back  with  you.  Use  my  name  and  you  will  have 
no  difficult}' ;  trj'  not  to  be  more  than  fifteen  minutes 
in  doing  all  this." 

Another  valet,  that  of  the  duchess,  appeared  as  the 
first  one  left  the  room. 

"  Go  to  the  Due  de  Chaulieu's  and  send  in  this 
card." 

Tlie  duke  gave  the  man  a  card  folded  in  a  certain 
manner.  When  these  two  intimates  wished  to  meet 
immediatel}'  on  some  pressing,  or  mysterious  affair, 
about  which  the\'  preferred  not  to  write,  the}'  notified 
one  another  in  this  way.  Thus  we  see  how  customs 
resemble  each  other  in  all  stages  of  society,  and  diflfer 
only  in  manners,  methods,  and  shades.  The  great  world 
has  its  argot,  but  there  it  is  called  style. 

"  Are  you  very  sure,  madame,  of  the  existence  of 
these  letters  said  to  be  written  by  Mademoiselle  de 
Grandlieu  to  that  young  man  ?  "  asked  the  duke. 

"  I  have  not  seen  them,  but  I  fear  they  exist,"  she 
replied,  trembling. 

•     "My  daughter   cannot   have   written    anything    she 
would  not  acknowledge,"  exclaimed  the  duchess. 

"Poor  duchess!"  thought  Diane,  giving  the  duke 
a  glance  that  made  him  tremble. 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  321 

"What  do  you  think,  m}'  dear  little  Diane?"  he 
whispered  in  her  ear,  taking  her  aside  into  the  recess 
of  a  window. 

"  Clotilde  was  so  in  love  with  Lucien,  dear,  that  she 
gave  him  an  appointment  before  her  departure.  If  it 
had  n't  been  for  that  little  Lenoncourt  she  might  pos- 
sibly have  run  away  with  him  in  the  forest  of  Fontaine- 
bleau.  I  know  that  Lucien  wrote  passionate  letters  to 
Clotilde,  enough  to  turn  the  head  of  a  saint.  We  are 
three  daughters  of  Eve  in  the  toils  of  the  serpent  of 
correspondence." 

The  duke  and  Diane  returned  toward  the  duchess 
and  Madame  Camusot,  who  were  talking  in  a  low 
voice.  Amelie,  following  a  hint  given  to  her  b}'  the 
Duchesse  de  Maufrigneuse,  was  posing  as  a  devote  to 
gain  the  good-will  of  the  pious  Portuguese. 

*'  We  are  at  the  mere}'  of  an  escaped  convict !  "  said 
the  duke,  with  a  curious  movement  of  his  shoulders. 
"  This  is  what  comes  of  receiving  in  one's  house  per- 
sons of  whom  we  are  not  absolutel}'  sure.  Before 
admitting  any  one,  we  ought  to  know  his  famih',  his 
fortune,  and  all  his  antecedents." 

That  sentence  is  the  moral  of  this  tale  from  the  aris- 
tocratic point  of  view. 

"  Well,  the  thing  is  done,"  said  the  Duchesse  de 
Maufrigneuse.  "  Let  us  think  now  of  saving  that 
poor  Madame  de  Serizy  and  Clotilde  and  myself." 

21 


322  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

''  We  must  wait  for  Henri.  I  have  sent  for  him  ; 
but  all  depends  on  the  person  whom  Gentil  has  gone 
to  fetch.  God  grant  that  he  ma}'  be  in  Paris !  Ma- 
dame," he  said,  addressing  Madame  Camusot,  "  I  thank 
you  for  having  thought  of  our  interests." 

This  was  Madame  Camusot's  dismissal.  The  daugh- 
ter of  the  cabinet  usher  knew  enousjh  to  understand 
the  duke,  and  she  rose ;  but  the  Duchesse  de  Mau- 
frigneuse,  with  that  bewitching  grace  which  won  for 
her  so  many  friends  among  all  classes,  took  Amelia 
by  the  hand  and  presented  her  in  a  certain  manner  to 
the  duke  and  duchess. 

"For  my  own  sake,"  she  said,  "and  not  because 
she  has  been  up  since  dawn  endeavoring  to  save  us  all, 
I  ask  you  for  something  more  than  a  mere  remem- 
brance of  my  little  Madame  Camusot.  In  the  first 
place,  she  has  already  rendered  me  services  I  can 
never  forget ;  and,  besides  that,  she  is  absoluteh'  de- 
voted to  our  cause,  both  she  and  her  husband.  I  have 
promised  to  advance  her  Camusot,  and  I  beg  j'ou  to 
protect  him,  in  the  first  instance,  for  m}'  sake." 

"  You  did  not  need  this  recommendation,"  said  the 
duke  to  Madame  Camusot.  "  The  GrandUeus  never 
forget  the  services  that  are  rendered  to  them.  Before 
long,  all  persons  attached  to  the  king  will  have  an  oc- 
casion to  distinguish  themselves ;  devotion  will  be 
asked  of  them.  Your  husband  shall  be  put  in  the 
breach." 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  323 

Madame  Camusot  retired,  proud,  happy,  and  swelling 
almost  to  suffocation  with  delight.  She  returned  home 
triumphant.  She  applauded  herself;  she  scoffed  at  the 
enmit3'  of  the  attorne^'-general.  She  even  said  to  her- 
self, "  Suppose  we  get  him  dismissed?  " 

It  was  time  that  Madame  Camusot  retired,  for  as  she 
left  the  house  the  Due  de  Chaulieu,  one  of  the  king's 
faA'orites,  encountered  her  on  the  portico. 

"  Henri,"  cried  the  Due  de  Grandlieu,  as  soon  as  his 
friend  was  announced,  "go  to  the  chateau,  I  entreat 
you,  and  try  to  speak  to  the  king  about  a  matter  I  want 
to  confide  to  you." 

Then  he  drew  him  into  the  window  where  he  had 
alreadj'  talked  witli  the  heedless  and  gracious  Diane. 
From  time  to  time  the  Due  de  Chaulieu  glanced  fur- 
tively at  the  lively  duchess,  who,  while  talking  with  the 
pious  duchess  and  allowing  herself  to  be  lectured,  re- 
turned the  duke's  glances  with  interest. 

"  Dear  child,"  said  the  Due  de  Grandlieu,  when  the 
private  conference  was  over,  "  do  be  a  little  more  care- 
ful !  Come,"  he  added,  taking  Diane's  hands,  "promise 
me  to  remember  appearances.  Don't  compromise  your- 
self again  ;  never  write  letters.  Letters,  my  dear,  have 
caused  as  many  private  troubles  as  the}'  have  public 
evils.  What  might  be  pardonable  in  a  3'oung  girl  like 
Clotilde,  in  love  for  the  first  time,  is  inexcusable 
in  —  " 


324  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

"  An  old  grenadier  who  has  been  under  fire  !  "  said 
the  duchess,  making  a  face  at  the  duke.  This  joke  and 
its  attendant  grimace  brought  a  smile  to  the  troubled 
faces  of  two  dukes,  and  even  to  that  of  the  excellent 
Duchesse  de  Grandlieu.  '^But  it  is  four  whole  years 
since  I  have  written  a  love-letter!  Are  we  saved?" 
continued  Diane,  who  hid  a  real  anxiety  under  her 
playfulness. 

''  Not  3'et,"  replied  the  Due  de  Chaulieu.  "  You 
don't  know  how  difficult  it  is  to  commit  an  arbitrary 
act.  For  a  constitutional  king,  it  is  like  the  iufidelitj'' 
of  a  married  woman  ;  it  is  his  adultery." 

"  His  pet  sin  !  "  said  the  Due  de  Grandlieu. 

*'  Forbidden  fruit!  "  cried  Diane,  laughing.  "Oh,  I 
wish  I  was  he  !  I  have  n't  an}'  of  it  left,  —  that  fruit  I 
I've  eaten  mine  all  up." 

"My  dear!  my  dear!"  said  the  pious  duchess,  "you 
are  going  too  far." 

The  two  dukes,  hearing  a  carriage  pulled  up  before 
the  portico,  with  the  noise  which  horses  make  when 
driven  at  speed,  left  the  two  women  alone  after  bowing 
to  them,  and  betook  themselves  to  the  duke's  stud}', 
where  was  presently  introduced  the  personage  from  the 
rue  Honore-Chevalier,  who  was  no  other  than  the  chief 
of  the  political  police,  the  obscure  but  all-powerful 
Corentin. 

"  Come  in,"  said  the  Due  de  Grandlieu,  "  come  in, 
Monsieur  de  Saint-Denis." 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  325 

Corentin,  surprised  to  find  so  good  a  memory  in  the 
duke,  entered,  and  bowed  profoundly  to  the  two  men. 

"The  present  matter  is  about  the  same  person,  or 
because  of  him,  my  dear  monsieur,"  said  the  Due  de 
Grandheu. 

"  But  he  is  dead,"  said  Corentin. 

"  He  had  a  companion  who  is  alive,"  remarked  the 
Duke  de  Chauheu,  "  a  tough  companion." 

"  The  convict,  Jacques  Collin,"  replied  Corentin. 

"  Speak,  Ferdinand  ;  relate  the  facts,"  said  the  Due 
de  Chaulieu  to  his  friend. 

"  That  wretch  is  much  to  be  feared,"  said  the  Due 
de  Grandlieu.  "He  seems  to  hold,  in  order  to  obtain 
a  ransom,  letters  which  Mesdames  de  Seriz}'  and  de 
Maufrigneuse  had  written  to  this  Lucien  Chardon,  his 
dependent.  Apparently  it  was  systematic  on  the  part 
of  that  3'oung  man  to  obtain  emotional  letters  in  ex- 
change for  his  own  ;  for  m}'  daughter.  Mademoiselle 
de  Grandlieu  has  written,  the}'  sa}',  several,  —  or  at 
an}'  rate,  the}'  fear  so.  AVe  cannot  know  how  that  may 
be,  for  she  is  now  on  a  journey." 

"  That  foolish  young  man,"  said  Corentin,  "  was  in- 
capable of  any  such  scheme.  It  is  a  precaution  taken 
by  the  abbe,  Carlos  Herrera." 

Corentin  rested  his  elbow  on  the  arm  of  the  chair 
in  which  he  was  sitting  and  put  his  head  in  his  hand 
to  reflect. 


326  The  Last  Inearnation  of  Vautrin. 

*'  Money?"  he  said  ;  "  why,  the  man  has  more  than 
we  have.  Esther  Gobseck  served  hnn  as  a  bait  to  fish 
two  millions  out  of  that  pond  of  gold  called  Nucingen. 
Messieurs,  give  me  full  powers  and  I  will  rid  30U  of 
that  fellow." 

"But — the  letters?"    said  both  dukes  together. 

"  Listen,  messieurs,"  continued  Corentin,  rising  and 
showing  his  crafty  face  in  a  state  of  ebullition.  He 
shoved  his  hands  into  the  pockets  of  his  black  flannel 
trousers.  This  great  actor  in  the  historical  drama  of 
our  day  had  merely  slipped  on  a  coat  and  waistcoat, 
not  waiting  to  change  his  morning  trousers,  knowing 
well  that  great  personages  are  grateful  for  promptitude 
under  certain  circumstances.  He  now  walked  famil- 
iarly up  and  down  the  duke's  stud}^  discussing  the 
matter  aloud  as  if  he  were  alone :  — 

*' He  is  a  convict;  we  can  fling  him,  without  trial, 
into  solitar}'  confinement  at  Bicetre  ;  without  an}'  pos- 
sible communications  ;  it  would  soon  kill  him.  But  he 
may  have  given  instructions  to  some  of  his  followers, 
foreseeing  that  very  thing." 

"  He  was  put  in  solitar}*  confinement  at  once,  as 
soon  as  he  was  found  in  the  house  of  that  courtesan," 
said  the  Due  de  Grandlieu. 

"There's  no  such  thing  as  solitary  confinement  in 
Paris  for  a  determined  fellow  like  him,"  replied  Coren- 
tin.    "He's  as  powerful  as, — as  I  am!" 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin,  327 

"What's  to  be  done?"  asked  the  dukes  of  each 
other  in  a  glance. 

"  We  can  send  him  back  to  the  galleys  at  once," 
went  on  Corentin.  "At  Rochefort,  he'll  be  dead  in 
six  months  —  Oh  !  without  a  crime,"  he  added,  reply- 
ing to  a  gesture  of  the  Due  de  Chaulieu.  "  It  could  n't 
be  prevented.  A  convict  can't  hold  out  longer  than 
six  months  of  a  hot  summer  if  he  is  made  to  really 
work  in  the  malarial  swamps  of  the  Charente.  But 
that  would  n't  do  in  case  he  has  already-  taken  precau- 
tions about  these  letters.  If  the  rascal  distrusts  his 
adversaries,  and  there  's  little  doubt  be  does,  we  must 
find  out  what  and  where  those  precautions  are.  If  the 
person  who  holds  the  letters  is  poor,  of  course  he  is 
corruptible —  The  thing  is  to  make  Jacques  Collin 
talk  !  What  a  duel !  I  should  be  worsted  !  It  would 
be  better  to  bu}'  those  papers  bv  other  papers,  —  an 
official  pardon,  — and  give  me  that  man  in  m}"  squad. 
Jacques  Collin  is  the  only  man  I  know  capable  of  suc- 
ceeding me,  now  that  poor  Contenson  and  that  dear 
Peyrade  are  dead, — Messieurs,  3'ou  will  have  to  give 
me  carte-blanche.  Jacques  Collin  is  at  the  Conci- 
ergerie.  I  '11  go  and  see  Monsieur  de  Granville  at  his 
office.  Send  some  confidential  person  to  meet  me 
there.  Monsieur  de  Granville  does  not  know  me,  and 
I  must  therefore  have  either  a  letter  of  introduction 
or  some  imposing  person  to  introduce  me.     You  have 


328  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

half  an  hour  in  which  to  arrange  this,  for  it  will  take 
me  that  time  to  dress,  or  rather  to  become  what  I 
must  be  to  the  e3'es  of  the  attorney-general." 

"Monsieur,"  Said  the  Due  de  Chaulieu,  "I  know 
3'our  wonderful  ability ;  and  I  only  ask  you  for  an  an- 
swer, 3^es  or  no.     Do  you  answer  for  success?" 

"  Yes,  —  if  allowed  full  powers,  and  if  3'ou  give  me 
your  word  never  to  question  me  on  this  subject.  My 
plan  is  made." 

This  m3'sterious  answer  made  the  two  great  sei- 
gneurs shudder  slightly. 

"  Go  on,  monsieur,"  said  the  Due  de  Chaulieu, "  and 
charge  3'our  expenses  to  the  usual  account." 

Corentin  bowed  and  left  the  room. 

Henri  de  Lenoncourt,  for  whom  Ferdinand  de  Grand- 
lieu  ordered  a  carriage  to  be  brought  round,  went  at 
once  to  the  king,  whom  he  was  able  to  see  at  all  times, 
owing  to  the  privileges  of  his  office. 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  329 


VIII. 

THE    SUFFERINGS    OF   AN    ATTORNEY-GENERAL. 

Thus  we  see  that  all  these  interests,  tangled  together, 
in  the  lowest  and  the  highest  walks  of  life,  were  about 
to  meet  in  the  office  of  the  attorne3'-general,  —  brought 
there  by  necessit}',  and  represented  by  three  men  :  law 
and  justice  by  Monsieur  de  Granville,  the  family  by 
Corentin ;  both  confronted  b}^  their  terrible  adversar}^ 
Jacques  Collin,  the  representative  of  Evil  in  all  its  sav- 
age energ}'. 

What  a  dugl  this  between  justice  and  authority,  the 
galleys  and  craft !  —  the  galleys,  that  symbol  of  audac- 
ity which  represses  calculation  and  reflection,  to  which 
all  means  are  good,  which  is  devoid  of  the  hypocrisy 
of  power,  which  symbolizes  hideously  the  interests  of 
the  famished  stomach,  the  bloody,  lieadlong  protestation 
of  hunger !  Here  is  the  offensive  and  tlie  defensive, 
robbery  and  property,  the  terrible  question  of  the  social 
state  and  the  natural  state  decided,  but  not  argued, 
in  the  narrowest  possible  space,  —  in  short,  a  fearful, 
living   image   of  those   antisocial   compromises  which 


330  The  Last  Incarnation  of  VaiUrin. 

feeble  representatives  of  power  have  made  with  sav- 
age outlaws. 

When  Monsieur  Camusot  was  announced  to  the 
attorne3'-general,  the  latter  made  a  sign  that  he  should 
be  admitted.  Monsieur  de  Granville,  who  expected 
the  visit,  was  anxious  to  come  to  an  understanding 
with  the  judge  as  to  the  manner  in  which  the  affair  of 
Lucien  should  be  terminated.  The  arrangement  made 
between  himself  and  Camusot  on  the  previous  evening, 
before  the  death  of  the  unhappy  poet,  of  course  was  at 
an  end. 

"  Sit  down,  Monsieur  Camusot,"  said  the  attorne}'- 
general,  dropping  into  his  own  arm-chair. 

Alone  with  the  judge,  he  allowed  his  depression  to 
be  visible.  Camusot  looked  at  him,  and  saw  on  that 
firm  face  a  pallor  that  was  almost  livid,  and  an  utter 
fatigue,  —  a  total  prostration,  which  revealed  more 
cruel  sufferings  than,  perhaps,  those  of  the  man  con- 
demned to  death  who  had  just  listened  to  the  rejection 
of  his  appeal  for  mere}' ;  and  yet  that  rejection  meant, 
"  Prepare  to  die,  for  3'our  last  hour  has  come." 

"  Shall  I  return  later.  Monsieur  le  comte,  —  though 
the  matter  is  certainl}'  urgent?" 

"  No,  remain,"  replied  the  attorney-general,  with 
dignit}'.  "A  103'al  magistrate,  monsieur,  must  accept 
his  trials,  and  know  how  to  beax  them.  I  did  wrong  to 
let  you  see  that  I  am  tronbled  —  " 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  331 

Camusot  made  a  gesture. 

"  God  grant  that  you  ma}'  never  know,  Monsieur 
Camusot,  these  extreme  necessities  of  our  life  ;  one 
might  die  of  a  lesser  suffering !  I  have  just  spent  the 
night  with  one  of  my  intimate  friends  ;  I  have  but  two 
friends,  —  Comte  Octave  de  Bauvan  and  the  Comte  de 
Seriz}'.  From  six  o'clock  last  evening  to  six  this 
morning  we  passed,  all  three  in  turn,  from  the  salon  to 
the  bedside  of  Madame  de  Seriz}',  expecting  each  time 
to  find  her  dead  or  a  maniac.  Desplein,  Bianchon,  and 
Sinard,  with  two  nurses,  did  not  leave  her.  The  count 
adores  his  wife.  Think  what  a  night  it  was  !  A  states- 
man is  never  desperate  like  an  imbecile.  Seriz}',  as  calm 
as  he  is  in  the  Council  chamber,  writhed  in  his  chair 
that  he  might  show  us  a  tranquil  face  ;  but  the  sweat 
rolled  from  his  brow.  I  have  slept  from  six  to  half- 
past  seven,  overcome  with  watching ;  yet  I  had  to  be 
here  at  lialf-past  eight  to  order  an  execution  !  Believe 
me,  Monsieur  Camusot,  when  a  magistrate  has  passed 
a  night  in  the  midst  of  sorrows,  and  felt  the  hand  of 
God  heavy  on  all  things  human,  striking  down  the 
noblest  hearts,  it  is  difficult  for  him  to  sit  here  before 
his  desk  and  say,  '  Let  that  head  fall  at  four  o'clock ! 
Annihilate  a  creature  of  God  who  is  full  of  life  and 
force  and  health.'  And  yet  that  is  m}'  duty  !  Over- 
come with  grief,  I  must  now  set  up  a  scaffold.  A  con- 
demned man  does  not  know  that  the  magistrate  who 


332  Tht  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

condemns  him  suffers  an  agony  almost  equal  to  bis 
own.  At  this  moment,  bound  together  by  a  sheet  of 
paper,  I,  Society  avenging  itself,  he,  Crime  about  to 
be  expiated,  —  we  are  both  Duty,  with  two  sides,  two 
existences  held  together  for  an  instant  b}'  the  sword 
of  the  law.  These  heavy  griefs  of  a  magistrate,  who 
pities  them?  who  consoles  them?  Our  glory  is  to  bury 
them  in  the  depths  of  our  hearts.  The  priest,  whose 
life  is  an  offering  to  God  ;  the  soldier,  whose  thousand 
deaths  are  given  to  his  countr}-,  seem  to  me  far  happier 
than  the  magistrate,  with  his  doubts,  his  fears,  his  ter- 
rible responsibility.  Do  you  know  the  man  who  is  to 
be  executed  to-da}'?"  continued  the  attornej'-general. 
*'  A  young  man  of  twenty-seven,  handsome  as  the  one 
who  killed  himself  3'esterda3',  fair  as  he,  — one  whose 
head  we  are  taking  off  against  all  expectation,  for  the 
only  positive  proof  against  him  is  of  possessing  stolen 
propert3\  Since  his  condemnation,  he  refuses  to  con- 
fess. For  seventy  days  he  has  resisted  every  effort, 
and  declares  himself  innocent.  For  two  months  I  have 
had  two  heads  upon  my  shoulders  !  Oh !  I  'd  give  a 
year  of  my  own  life  to  obtain  his  confession,  if  onlj'  to 
reassure  the  jur3\  Think  what  an  injury  it  would  be 
to  law  and  justice  should  it  be  discovered  too  late  that 
another  had  committed  the  crime  !  The  jury  —  that 
institution  which  revolutionar}'  legislators  have  thought 
so  strong  —  is  an  element  of  social  ruin,  for  it  fails  in 


The  Last  IncarnaMon  of  Vautrin.  333 

its  mission ;  it  does  not  sufficient!}'  protect  societ}'. 
The  jury  plays  with  its  functions.  The  jurors  divide 
themselves  into  two  camps,  one  of  which  is  against  the 
death  penalty' ;  from  this  results  the  total  overthrow  of 
equality  before  the  law.  A  certain  horrible  crime 
(parricide)  obtains  in  one  de[)artment  a  verdict  of  non- 
culpahllite,  while  in  another  some  far  less  heinous  crime 
is  punished  bj'  death. -^  What  would  happen  if  here  in 
Paris  we  were  to  execute  an  innocent  man  ?  " 

"  He  is  an  escaped  convict,"  remarked  Camusot, 
timidly. 

"  He  would  become  a  paschal  lamb  in  the  hands  of 
the  Opposition  and  the  press !  "  cried  Monsieur  de 
Granville.  "And  the  Opposition  would  have  a  fine 
game  to  pla}'  in  whitening  him  ;  for  he  is  a  Corsican, 
fanatical  as  to  the  ideas  of  his  countr}'.  His  crimes  are 
mostly  the  result  of  a  vendetta.  In  that  island  the}'  kill 
their  enemies,  and  think  themselves,  and  are  thought 
by  others,  honorable  men.  Ah,  loyal  magistrates  are 
most  unfortunate !  The}'  ought  to  live  apart  from  all 
society,  as  pontiffs  used  to  do.  The  world  would  then 
see  them  issuing  from  their  cells  at  certain  fixed  hours, 
grave,  venerable,  sitting  in  judgment  like  the  high- 
priesthood  of  the  ancients,  which  united  in  itself  the 

1  At  the  present  time  [1843]  there  are  at  the  galleys  twenty, 
three  parricides  to  whom  have  been  granted  the  benefits  of  "exten- 
uating circumstances." 


334  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin, 

sacerdotal  power  and  the  judicial  power.  We  should 
then  be  seen  in  our  vocation  onh' ;  now  all  the  world 
ma}'  see  us  suffering,  or  diverting  ourselves  like  other 
men.  It  beholds  us  in  salons,  in  our  homes,  as  citi- 
zens, full  of  passions,  often  grotesque  instead  of  being 
terrible." 

This  passionate  cr}',  broken  by  pauses  and  interjec- 
tions and  accompanied  by  gestures  which  gave  it  an 
eloquence  not  transferable  to  paper,  made  Camusot 
quiver. 

"  I,  m3'self,  monsieur,''  he  said,  "  began  mj'  appren- 
ticeship in  the  sufferings  of  our  calling  yesterda3^  I 
have  almost  died  of  the  death  of  that  3'oung  man.  He 
did  not  understand  my  good  intentions  to  him  ;  the 
unfortunate  fellow  did  the  harm  to  himself." 

'•'•  Ah  !  he  ought  not  to  have  been  examined  !  "  cried 
Monsieur  de  Granville.  "It  is  so  easy  to  do  a  service 
by  abstaining  from  doing  anything." 

"  But  the  law?  "  said  Camusot.  "  It  was  two  days 
since  his  arrest." 

"The  harm  is  done,"  said  the  attornej^-general.  "I 
have  repaired  as  best  I  could  what  is,  in  truth,  irrep- 
arable. My  carriage  and  servants  are  now  following 
the  hearse  of  that  poor  weak  poet.  Seriz}-  has  done 
even  more  ;  he  accepts  the  dut}^  of  being  his  execu- 
tor ;  and  the  Comte  de  Bauvan  has  gone  in  person  to 
the  funeral." 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  335 

*' AYell,  Monsieur  le  comte,"  said  Camusot,  "then 
let  us  finish  the  matter  now.  We  still  have  a  very 
dangerous  prisoner  on  our  hands.  He  is,  as  3'ou 
know,  Jacques  Collin.  This  wretch  cannot  fail  to  be 
recognized  —  " 

"Then  we  are  lost!  "  exclaimed  Monsieur  de  Gran- 
ville. 

*'  He  is  at  this  moment  with  the  man  condemned 
to  death,  who  was  formerly  his  chain  companion  at 
the  galleys  ;  he  protected  him  as  he  has  since  protected 
Lucien.  Bibi-Lupin  has  disguised  himself  as  a  gen- 
darme in  order  to  be  present  at  the  interview." 

''Wh}'  does  the  detective  police  meddle  in  the  mat- 
ter?" cried  the  attorney-general.  "It  ought  to  act 
under  my  orders  onl}'." 

"  All  the  Conciergerie  will  know  that  we  have  caught 
Jacques  Collin.  Well,  I  have  come  here  to  tell  you  that 
this  bold  criminal  undoubtedly  possesses  certain  danger- 
ous letters  in  Lucien's  correspondence  with  Madame  de 
SerizN',  the  Duchesse  de  Maufrigneuse,  and  Mademoi- 
selle Clotilde  de  Grandlieu." 

"  Are  3'ou  sure  of  that?  "  asked  Monsieur  de  Gran- 
ville, betraying  on  his  face  a  pained  surprise. 

"You  can  judge  for  3'ourself  what  cause  there  is  to 
fear.  As  I  opened  and  laid  upon  m\'  table  the  bundle 
of  letters  taken  from  Lucien's  apartments,  Jacques 
Collin  cast  an  incisive  glance  over  the  papers  and  then 


336  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

let  a  smile  of  satisfaction  escape  him  ;  no  judge  could 
fail  to  understand  tlie  significance  of  that  smile.  A 
scoundrel  as  waiy  as  Jacques  Colhn  would  be  careful 
not  to  drop  such  a  weapon  as  compromising  letters. 
What  use,  think  3'ou,  his  lawyer  (whom  he'll  certainly 
choose  among  the  enemies  of  the  government  and  the 
aristocracy)  will  make  of  those  documents  ?  My  wife, 
to  whom  the  Duchesse  de  Maufrigneuse  has  shown  much 
kindness,  has  gone  to  warn  her,  and  they  will  probably 
go  together  to  the  Grandlieus'  to  consult  them." 

"The  trial  of  that  man  is  impossible!"  cried  the 
attorney-general,  rising  and  walking  up  and  down  his 
office  with  great  strides.  "  He  has  undoubtedly  put 
those  letters  in  some  safe  place." 

"I  know  where,"  said  Camusot.  With  those  three 
words,  he  effaced  from  the  attorney-general's  mind  the 
prejudice  which  that  official  felt  against  him. 

"  Explain,"  said  Monsieur  de  Granville,  sitting  down.' 

"  On  my  wa}'  to  the  Palace  this  morning  I  reflected 
deeply  on  this  painful  affair.  Jacques  Collin  has  an 
aunt,  a  blood-relation,  a  woman  about  whom  the  polit- 
ical police  sent  a  memorandum  to  the  prefecture.  He 
is  the  pupil  and  the  idol  of  that  woman,  who  is  the 
sister  of  his  father  and  is  named  Jacqueline  Collin. 
This  creature  has  an  establishment  of  marchande  de 
toilette^  and,  b}*  help  of  this  business,  she  obtains  a 
knowledge  of  man}'  family  secrets.     If  Jacques  Collin 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  337 

has  confided  those  papers  to  the  care  of  an}""  one,  it 
is  to  that  woman.     Let  us  arrest  her." 

The  attorne3'-general  cast  a  glance  at  Camusot  which 
seemed  to  sa}' :  "The  man  is  not  such  a  fool  as  I 
thought  him  ;  but  he  is  young  at  the  work ;  he  does 
not  know  how  to  hold  the  reins  of  the  law." 

"But,"  said  Camusot,  continuing,  "in  order  to  suc- 
ceed we  must  change  all  the  measures  we  took  3'ester- 
day ;  and  I  have  come  to  ask  your  advice, — 30ur 
orders." 

The  attorney -general  took  up  his  paper  knife  and  be- 
gan to  tap  gently  on  the  edge  of  his  table  with  one 
of  those  motions  common  to  thinkers  when  they  give 
themselves  up  to  reflection. 

"Three  great  families  in  peril!"  he  cried;  "no 
blunder  must  be  made.  You  are  right ;  let  us  follow 
Fouche's  maxim  and  arrest.  Jacques  Collin  must  be 
sent  back  to  solitar}^  confinement  instantl}-." 

"  But  that  is  admitting  him  to  be  the  ex-convict;  it 
will  ruin  Lucien's  memory." 

"What  a  frightful  situation!"  said  Monsieur  de 
Granville;    "danger  on  all  sides." 

At  this  instant  the  director  of  the  Conciergerie  ap- 
peared, but  not  without  rapping.  An  office  like  that 
of  the  attornej'-general  is  so  well  guarded  that  persons 
belonging  to  the  Parquet  can  alone  reach  the  door  to 
rap  there. 

22 


338  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

*'  Monsieur  le  comte,"  said  Monsieur  Gault,  "  the 
accused  person,  who  goes  by  the  name  of  Carlos  Her- 
rera,  asks  to  speak  with  you." 

''Has  he  communicated  with  an}'  one?" 

''  With  the  other  prisoners  ;  he  has  been  in  i\iQ  preau 
since  half-past  seven  o'clock.  He  has  also  seen  the 
condemned  man,  who  seems  to  have  talked  to  him." 

Monsieur  de  Granville,  on  a  word  from  Camusot, 
which  struck  him  like  a  flash  of  light,  saw  the  chance 
offered  by  Jacques  Collin's  intimac}'  with  Theodore 
Calvi  to  obtain  the  letters.  Glad  of  a  reason  to  post- 
pone the  execution,  he  called  Monsieur  Gault  to  his 
side  with  a  motion  of  his  hand. 

"  My  intention  is,"  he  said,  '"to  put  off  the  execu- 
tion till  to-morrow ;  but  I  do  not  wish  this  to  be  sus- 
pected at  the  Conciergerie.  Keep  absolute  silence, 
therefore.  Let  the  executioner  appear  to  go  on  with 
the  preparations.  Send  the  Spanish  priest  here  care- 
fully guarded ;  the  Spanish  embassy  claims  him.  The 
gendarmes  are  to  bring  Don  Carlos  by  3'our  private 
staircase,  so  that  he  may  see  no  one  on  the  wa}'. 
Warn  the  men  who  bring  him  as  to  this.  Two  are  to 
hold  him,  —  one  by  each  arm;  and  the}^  are  not  to 
loose  him  for  an  instant  until  they  reach  the  door  of 
this  office.  Are  3'ou  sure.  Monsieur  Gault,  that  this 
dangerous  foreigner  has  communicated  with  no  one 
except  the  prisoners?" 


Tlie  Last  Incarnation  of  Vaut^^in.  339 

"  Ah !  just  as  he  left  the  condemned  cell  a  lady 
arrived  to  see  him  —  " 

Here  the  two  magistrates  exchanged  a  look. 

"  What  lady?  "  asked  Camusot. 

''  One  of  his  penitents,  —  a  marquise,"  replied  Mon- 
sieur Gault. 

^'  Worse  and  worse  !  "  cried  Monsieur  de  Granville, 
looking  at  Camusot. 

"  She  dazzled  the  gendarmes  and  jailers,"  said  Mon- 
sieur Gault,  puzzled. 

"Nothing  is  unimportant  in  j-our  functions,"  said 
the  attorne3'-general,  sternl}'.  "  The  Conciergerie  is 
not  walled  as  it  is  for  nothing.  How  did  that  lady 
enter?  " 

*'With  a  proper  permit,  monsieur,"  replied  the  di- 
rector. "  The  lad}',  who  was  handsomel}'  dressed, 
came  in  a  fine  equipage,  with  a  chasseur  and  footman. 
She  wished  to  see  her  confessor  before  going  to  the 
funeral  of  that  unhappy  young  man  whose  body  you 
sent  to  his  late  home." 

"Bring  me  that  permit  from  the  prefect,"  said  Mon- 
sieur de  Granville. 

"  It  was  granted  on  the  recommendation  of  his  Ex- 
cellenc}'  the  Comte  de  Serizy." 

"What  was  the  womanlike?"  asked  the  attorney- 
general. 

"  She  appeared  to  be  a  well-bred  woman." 


340  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin, 

"  Did  you  see  her  face?  " 

"  She  wore  a  black  veil." 

"  What  did  they  say  to  each  other?  " 

"A  devote  with  a  prayer-book,  —  what  should  they 
say?  She  asked  for  the  abbe's  blessing,  and  went  down 
on  her  knees." 

"Did  they  talk  long?" 

"About  a  minute;  but  none  of  us  understood  what 
they  said.     They  appeared  to  speak  in  Spanish." 

"Tell  us  all,  monsieur,"  said  the  attorney-general. 
"  I  repeat,  that  the  slightest  detail  is  of  importance  to 
us.     Let  this  be  a  warning  to  you." 

"She  wept,  monsieur." 

"Real  tears?" 

"  That  we  could  not  see  ;  her  face  was  hidden  in  her 
handkerchief.  She  left  three  hundred  francs  in  gold 
for  the  prisoners." 

"  Then  it  was  not  she  !  "  cried  Camusot. 

"  Bibi-Lupin  cried  out,  when  he  heard  of  it,  that  she 
was  certainly  a  thief,"  said  Monsieur  Gault. 

"  He  ought  to  know,"  said  Monsieur  de  Granville. 
"  Issue  that  warrant,"  he  added,  looking  at  Camusot, 
"  and  quickly ;  put  the  seals  on  her  domicile  at  once. 
But  how  did  she  get  the  recommendation  from  Mon- 
sieur de  Serizy?  Bring  me  that  permit  from  the  pre- 
fecture. Go,  Monsieur  Gault,  and  send  the  abbe  here 
at  once.     As  long  as  we  have  him  in  prison  the  danger 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  341 

cannot  increase ;  and  in  two  liours'  conversation  we 
can  often  raake  mucb  way  in  a  man's  soul." 

"Especially  an  attorney -general  like  you,"  said  Ca- 
musot,  artfull}'. 

"We  shall  be  two  on  this  occasion,"  returned  the 
attornej'-general,  politely.  Then  he  resumed  his 
reflections. 

"There  ought  to  be  attached  to  all  prisons,  which 
have  parlors,  a  proper  superintendent  of  visitors,  with 
a  good  salarj',  and  retiring  pension  for  the  cleverest  of 
them,"  he  said,  after  a  long  pause.  "  Bibi-Lupin 
might  finish  his  days  there.  We  should  thus  have  an 
eye  and  an  ear  in  a  place  which  wants  far  more  watch- 
ing than  it  ever  gets.  Monsieur  Gault  has  told  us 
nothing  decisive." 

"He  is  so  busy,"  said  Camusot.  "But  there  is  a 
great  gulf  between  us  and  the  prisoners  in  solitary  con- 
finement which  ought  not  to  exist.  To  get  from  the 
cells  of  the  Conciergerie  to  our  oflSces,  prisoners  have  to 
be  brought  through  the  corridors  and  the  court-j'ard, 
and  up  the  stairwa}'.  The  attention  of  the  guard  can- 
not ))e  perpetually  on  the  criminal ;  whereas,  the  crim- 
inal is  thinking  all  the  time  of  his  affair.  I  have  been 
told  that  a  lad3'  had  alread}'  met  Jacques  Collin  when 
he  was  on  his  way  to  me  for  examination.  This  woman 
got  as  far  as  the  guard-room  of  the  gendarmes  at  the 
top  of  the  staircase  from  the  Sourici^re.     The  ushers 


342  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

told  me  so ;  and  I  rebuked  tlie  gendarmes  for  allow- 
ing it." 

"Oh!  the  Palais  ought  to  be  rebuilt  entirely,"  said 
Monsieur  de  Granville;  "but  it  would  cost  from 
twent}"  to  thirty  millions.  Ask  the  Chambers  for  thirt}' 
millions  for  the  good  of  the  Law  !  " 

The  steps  of  several  persons  coming  up  the  corridor 
and  the  rattle  of  arms  was  heard.  No  doubt  it  was 
Jacques  Collin,  with  his  guard. 

The  attorne3'-general  put  a  mask  of  gravit}'  on  his 
face,  behind  which  the  man  disappeared.  Camusot 
imitated  the  head  of  the  Parquet. 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  343 


IX. 


CRIME    AXD    JUSTICE    TETE    A    TETE. 


The  office-servant  opened  the  door,  and  Jacques 
Collin  appeared,  calm  and  imperturbable. 

"  You  have  asked  to  speak  to  me,"  said  the  attorney- 
general.     "  I  will  listen  to  3'ou." 

"  Monsieur  le  comte,  I  am  Jacques  Collin,  and  I 
surrender." 

Camusot  quivered,  the  attorne3'-general  remained 
calm. 

'*  You  will,  of  course,  suppose  that  I  have  motives 
for  thus  acting,"  went  on  Jacques  Collin,  holding  the 
two  magistrates  b}'  his  mocking  e3e.  "  I  must  em- 
barrass 3'ou  immensely ;  for,  while  I  continued  a  Span- 
ish priest,  3'ou  had  onU'  to  send  me  with  an  escort  of 
gendarmes  across  the  frontier  at  Ba3onne,  and  there 
the  Spanish  ba3'onets  would  have  rid  you  of  me." 

The  two  magistrates  remained  silent  and  impassible. 

*'  Monsieur  le  comte,"  continued  the  convict,  "  the 
reasons  that  impel  me  to  act  thus  are  serious,  although 
the3'  are  devilishl3'  personal  to  myself.  But  I  can  tell 
them  onh'  to  you  ;  and  if  3'ou  are  afraid  —  " 

"Afraid  of  whom,  —  of  what?"  said  the  Comte  de 


344  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

Granvitte.  The  attitude,  countenance,  carriage  of  the 
head,  the  gesture,  the  glance  of  this  great  magistrate, 
made  him  at  that  moment  a  living  embodiment  of  the 
Magistracy  which  is  in  duty  bound  to  offer  noble  ex- 
amples of  civil  courage.  In  this  passing  moment  he 
rose  to  the  height  of  the  old  magistrates  of  the  ancient 
parliament  in  the  days  of  the  civil  wars,  when  judges 
found  themselves  face  to  face  with  death,  and  stood 
like  the  marble  of  the  statues  that  were  afterwards 
erected  to  them. 

"Afraid  of  being  alone  with  an  escaped  convict." 

"Leave  us,  Monsieur  Camusot,"  said  the  attorney- 
general,  quickl}^. 

"  I  wished  to  propose  that  j'ou  should  bind  me  hand 
and  foot,"  continued  Jacques  Collin,  coldl}^  enfolding 
the  two  magistrates  in  a  potential  look.  He  paused, 
and  then  said,  gravel}',  "  Monsieur  le  comte,  1  esteemed 
you  only,  but  now  you  have  m}-  admiration." 

"  Do  you  think  30urself  so  formidable?"  asked  the 
magistrate,  in  a  tone  of  contempt. 

"  Think  myself  formidable!"  replied  the  convict. 
"Why  should  I?     I  am,  and  I  know  it." 

He  took  a  chair  and  sat  down  with  all  the  ease  of  a 
man  w^ho  feels  himself  on  a  level  with  his  adversary  in 
a  conference  of  one  power  with  another  power. 

"At  this  moment  Monsieur  Camusot,  who  had 
reached  the  threshold  of  the  door,  and  was  about  to 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  345 

close  it,  returned  to  Monsieur  de  Granville,  and  gave 
liim  two  papers,  folded. 

"  See  !  "  lie  said  to  the  attorney-general,  pointing  to 
one  of  the  papers. 

"  Call  back  Monsieur  Gault,"  cried  the  Comte  de 
Granville,  as  soon  as  he  had  read  (on  the  permit  the 
director  had  brought  to  him)  the  name  of  the  maid  of 
the  Duchesse  de  Maufrigneuse,  who  was  known  to 
him. 

The  director  entered. 

''  Describe  to  me  the  woman  who  presented  this  per- 
mit," said  the  attorne3'-general  in  a  low  voice  to  the 
director. 

"  Short,  stont,  and  stocky,"  replied  Monsieur  Gault. 

"  The  person  for  whom  this  permit  was  given  is  tall 
and  slight,"  said  Monsieur  de  Granville.  "How  old 
was  she  ?  " 

"About  sixty." 

"Does  this  concern  me,  messieurs?"  said  Jacques 
Colhn.  "Come,"  he  added,  frankl}',  "you  needn't 
look  further.  That  person  was  m}'  aunt,  an  old  woman. 
1  can  save  you  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  You  cannot 
find  my  aunt  unless  I  choose.  If  we  paddle  about  in 
this  wa}',  we  shall  never  come  to  any  result." 

"  Monsieur  I'abbe  no  longer  speaks  broken  French," 
remarked  Monsieur  Gault. 

"  Because   everything   is  l)roken    enough,   mj'   dear 


346  The  Last  Iiicar7iation  of  Vautrin. 

Monsieur  Gault,"  replied  Jacques  Collin,  with  a  bitter 
smile. 

Monsieur  Gault  went  hurriedly  up  to  the  attorney- 
general  and  whispered  in  his  ear:  "Be  careful  of 
yourself,  Monsieur  le  comte  ;  that  man  is  in  a  fury." 

Monsieur  de  Granville  looked  slowly  at  Jacques 
Collin,  and  thought  him  calm  ;  but  he  presently  per- 
ceived the  truth  of  what  the  director  had  said.  That 
misleading  calmness  covered  the  cold  and  terrible  irri- 
tation of  the  nerves  of  a  savage.  In  the  convict's  e3'e 
smouldered  a  volcanic  eruption,  his  fists  were  tightly 
closed.  It  was  indeed  a  tiger  gathering  itself  up  to 
spring  upon  its  \)VQy. 

"  Leave  us/'  said  the  attorney-general,  gravel}', 
addressing  the  director  and  the  judge. 

"You  did  well  to  send  away  Lucien's  murderer," 
said  Jacques  Collin,  not  caring  whether  Camusot  heard 
him  or  not.  "I  could  not  have  borne  it  longer;  I 
should  have  strangled  him." 

Monsieur  de  Granville  shuddered.  Never  had  he 
seen  so  much  blood  in  the  e3'es  of  a  man,  so  much 
pallor  on  the  cheeks,  so  much  sweat  on  the  brow,  or 
such  contraction  of  the  muscles. 

"What  good  would  that  murder  have  done  you?" 
he  said  tranquilly  to  the  criminal  before  him. 

"You  avenge  —  or  think  you  avenge  —  society 
every  day,  monsieur,  and  3'et  you  ask  me  the  reason 


The  Last  Incarnatio7i  of  Vautrin.  347 

of  a  vengeance !  Have  you  never  felt  Revenge 
turning  its  blades  in  your  bosom?  Are  you  igno- 
rant that  that  man,  that  imbecile  judge,  killed  our 
dear  one,  —  for  you  loved  him,  my  Lucien,  and  he 
loved  you  !  I  know  you  b}'  heart,  monsieur.  Ever}' 
night  that  dear  child  told  me  all  when  he  came  home 
to  me.  I  put  him  to  bed,  as  a  nurse  her  nursling; 
and  I  made  him  relate  all  that  happened.  He  confided 
to  me  everything,  even  to  his  least  sensations.  Ah! 
no  good  mother  ever  loved  her  only  son  as  I  loved 
that  dear  angel.  Oh  !  if  you  had  known  him  as  I  knew 
him  !  Good  sprang  up  in  that  heart  as  the  flower  in 
the  fields.  He  was  weak,  —  that  was  his  one  defect ; 
weak  as  the  strings  of  a  lute,  strong  only  in  bending. 
But  such  are  the  lovable  natures !  their  weakness 
is  tenderness,  the  faculty  of  unfolding  to  the  sun  of 
art,  of  love,  of  the  beautiful  which  God  has  given  to 
man  under  m3Tiad  forms  !  Lucien  was  half  a  woman. 
Ah !  what  did  I  not  say  to  that  brute  beast  who 
has  just  gone  from  here?  Monsieur,  I  did,  in  my 
place  as  prisoner  before  a  judge,  what  God  himself 
might  have  done  to  save  his  son,  had  he  so  willed  it, 
from  Pontius  Pilate." 

A  torrent  of  tears  burst  from  the  clear  and  yellow 
eyes  that  lately  flamed  like  those  of  a  famished  wolf 
after  six  months  prowling  on  the  snows  of  the  Ukraine. 
Presently  he  continued  :  — 


348  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

*'  The  booby  would  not  listen  to  me,  and  he  de- 
stroyed mj'  child  !  Monsieur,  I  washed  that  body  with 
my  tears,  imploring  Him  I  do  not  Jciiow^  who  is  above 
us.  That  tells  you  all  in  a  word,  —  for  I  believe  not 
in  God ;  T  could  not  be  what  I  am,  unless  I  were 
materialist.  You  do  not  know,  no  man  knows  what 
sorrow  is  ;  I  alone  know  it.  The  fire  of  grief  had  so 
dried  up  ray  tears  that  I  could  not  weep  last  night. 
But  now  T  weep,  for  I  feel  that  3'ou  understand  me. 
I  saw  3'ou  there,  just  now,  holding  the  scales  of  justice 
—  Ah!  monsieur,  ask  God,  in  whom  I  am  tempted 
to  believe,  ask  God  to  spare  you  sufferings  like  mine. 
That  cursed  judge  has  robbed  me  of  my  soul.  Mon- 
sieur !  monsieur !  they  are  burying  at  this  moment  my 
life,  my  beaut}',  my  virtue,  my  conscience,  my  strength  ! 
Did  you  ever  see  a  dog  from  which  a  surgeon  drains 
its  blood?  behold  me  in  that  dog!  This  is  wh}'  I 
have  come  to  say  to  you,  '  I  am  Jacques  Collin,  and 
I  give  myself  up.'  I  had  resolved  to  do  so  this  morn- 
ing when  the}'  tore  that  body  from  me.  I  determined 
then  to  give  myself  up  to  justice  without  conditions. 
But  I  have  changed  my  mind  ;  now  I  must  make  some  ; 
you  shall  know  why." 

"  Are  you  speaking  to  Monsieur  de  Granville  or  to 
the  attorney-general?"    said  the  count. 

The  two  men.   Crime  and  Justice,   looked  at  each 
other.     The   convict's   words   had   deeply   moved   the 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vaiitrm.  349 

magistrate,  who  was  seized  with  a  divine  pity  for  that 
unhappy  man ;  lie  came  to  a  perception  of  his  life  and 
of  his  feelings.  Thus  impressed,  tlie  magistrate  (for 
a  magistrate  is  always  a  magistrate)  to  whom  Jacques 
Collin's  life  since  his  escape  was  unknown,  thought 
that  he  might  make  himself  master  of  this  criminal  who 
was,  after  all,  only  guilty  of  forgery.  It  occurred  to 
him  to  try  generosity  on  that  complex  nature,  composed 
like  bronze  of  divers  metals,  of  good  and  evil.  Monsieur 
de  Granville  who  had  reached  the  age  of  fifty-two  with- 
out ever  being  able  to  inspire  affection,  admired  tender 
natures,  like  all  men  who  have  not  been  loved.  Per- 
haps this  despair,  the  lot  of  many  men  to  whom  women 
will  give  only  esteem  or  friendship,  was  the  secret  of 
the  tie  between  the  three  friends,  de  Bauvan,  de  Gran- 
ville, de  Serizy ;  for  mutual  sorrow  like  mutual  happi- 
ness, tunes  all  souls  to  the  same  diapason. 

"  You  have  a  future,"  said  the  attorney-general, 
with  a  penetrating  glance  at  the  humbled  criminal. 

The  man  answered  with  a  gesture  that  expressed  the 
profoundest  indifference  to  himself. 

*'  Lucien  leaves  a  will  in  which  he  bequeaths  yon 
three  hundred  thousand  francs." 

"  Poor  boy  !  ah,  my  poor  boy  !  "  exclaimed  Jacques 
CoUin,  "always  too  honest!  I  was  everj'  evil  thing; 
he  was  good,  noble,  beautiful,  sublime  !  Such  glorious 
souls  cannot  be  injured ;  he  never  derived  anything 
from  me,  monsieur, — except  my  mone}'." 


350  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

This  utter  abandonment  of  his  own  personalit}^,  which 
the  magistrate  was  unable  to  arouse,  proved  the  sin- 
cerity of  the  man's  words  so  forcibly  that  Monsieur 
de  Granville  went  over  to  his  side  completel}'.  The 
attorney-general  alone  remained  against  him. 

"  If  nothing  can  interest  3'ou  personall}"  an}'  more, 
why  are  you  here,  and  what  have  you  come  to  say  to 
me?  "  asked  Monsieur  de  Granville. 

"  I  came  to  deliver  myself  up  ;  that  is  something,  is 
it  not?  You  burned,  but  3'ou  had  not  found  me.  And 
if  you  had,  I  should  only  have  embarrassed  you." 

"  What  an  adversary  !  "  thought  the  attorney- 
general. 

"  You  are  about  to  cut  off  the  head  of  an  innocent 
man,  monsieur ;  and  I  have  found  the  guilt}'  persons," 
said  Jacques  Collin,  gravel}^  "  But  I  am  not  here  for 
him  more  than  for  30U.  I  wish  to  save  you  from  re- 
morse, for  I  love  all  those  who  bore  my  Lucien  good- 
will, just  as  my  hatred  will  forever  follow  those,  be 
they  men  or  women,  who  hindered  him  from  living. 
What 's  a  convict  to  me  !  "  he  exclaimed,  after  a  slight 
pause.  "  A  convict  to  my  e3'es  is  what  an  ant  is 
to  3'ours.  I  'm  like  the  brigands  of  Itah',  —  fine  fel- 
lows, the3' !  —  if  onl3^  a  traveller  brings  them  in  some- 
thing more  than  the  cost  of  the  powder  and  shot,  they 
shoot  him.  In  this  matter  I  have  only  thought  of  3'ou. 
I  have  m^de  that  3'oung  man,  Theodore  Cah  i,  confess  ; 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  351 

I  was  the  onlj'  person  he  could  trust,  for  he  used  to 
be  ni}'  chain  companion.  He  has  a  kind  nature,  and 
he  meant  to  do  a  service  to  his  mistress  in  selhng 
the  stolen  goods.  But  he  was  no  more  criminal  in  the 
Nanterre  affair  than  you  are.  He  is  a  Corsican  ;  it  is 
then*  moraiit}'  to  avenge  themselves,  and  to  kill  one 
another  like  flies.  In  Spain  and  Italy  life  is  not  re- 
spected ;  and  the  reason  is  simple  enough.  There  they 
believe  in  a  soul,  a  spirit,  a  something  which  survives 
eternall}'.  Go  and  tell  that  pretty  tale  to  the  histo- 
rians !  There  are  other  lands,  philosophical  and  athe- 
istical, which  make  men  pay  dear  for  meddling  with 
human  life ;  and  the}'  are  right,  because  the}'  only  be- 
lieve in  Matter  in  this  present  world.  If  Calvi,"  con- 
tinued Jacques  Collin,  "  had  told  3'ou  the  name  of  the 
woman  from  whom  he  got  the  stolen  things,  you  would 
have  found,  not  the  real  culprit,  for  he  is  already  in 
your  hands,  but  an  accomplice  Theodore  does  not  want 
to  injure,  for  she  is  a  woman.  Now,  I  know  the  mur- 
derer and  the  managers  of  this  bold  and  skilful  crime, 
which  has  been  related  to  me  in  all  its  details.  Put  off 
Calvi's  execution,  and  you  shall  know  all ;  but  give  me 
your  word  to  commute  the  death  penalty,  and  send  him 
back  to  the  galleys.  In  the  sorrow  in  which  I  now  am, 
I  cannot  play  a  part,  as  you  must  know." 

"  With  3'Ou,  Jacques  Collin,  I  think  I  am  at  liberty 
to  relax  the  rigor  of  my  office,  althougli  it  may  some- 


352  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

what  lower  justice  and  the  law,  which  ought  never  to 
make  compromises." 

"  Will  you  grant  me  that  life?" 

*' Possibly." 

'*  Monsieur,  I  implore  you  to  give  me  your  word ; 
that  will  suffice  me." 

Monsieur  de  Granville  made  a  gesture  of  offended 
dignit3% 

"  I  hold  the  honor  of  three  great  families  in  m}'' 
hands,"  said  Jacques  Collin;  "all  3'ou  hold  are  the 
lives  of  three  convicts.     I  am  the  stronger." 

"  You  ma}^  be  returned  to  solitary  confinement ;  what 
will  you  do  then?  "  asked  the  attornej'-general. 

"  ^A  (}a!  are  we  playing  a  game?"  cried  Jacques 
Collin.  "  I  was  speaking  frankly  to  Monsieur  de 
Granville  ;  but  if  the  attornej'-general  is  here,  I  take 
back  m}'  cards  and  am  dumb, — just  as  I  was  about, 
had  you  given  me  your  word,  to  offer  you  the  let- 
ters written  to  Lucien  by  Mademoiselle  Clotilde  de 
Grandlieu." 

The  words  were  said  with  a  cool  composure  of  look 
and  tone  which  warned  Monsieur  de  Granville  that 
here  was  an  adversary  with  whom  the  slightest  blunder 
was  dangerous. 

"Is  that  all  you  have  to  ask?"  said  the  attorney- 
general. 

"  I  am  about  to  speak  to  you  of  myself,"  said  Jacques 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  353 

Collin.  "  The  honor  of  the  fomilj'  of  GrandUeu  pays 
for  the  commutation  of  Theodore's  sentence.  It  is  giv- 
ing much  and  receiving  little  ;  for  what 's  a  galle\'-slave 
condemned  for  life  !  If  he  attempts  to  escape  you  shoot 
him ;  it  is  onl}*  a  bill  of  exchange  upon  the  guillotine. 
Promise  me  to  send  him  to  Toulon,  and  give  orders 
that  he  shall  be  well  treated,  or  they  might  pack  him 
off  to  Rochefort,  intending  to  get  rid  of  him  in  six 
months.  Now,  for  myself  I  want  more.  I  have  cer- 
tain letters  of  Madame  de  Serizy,  and  others  of  the 
Duchesse  de  Mauf  rigneuse,  —  and  what  letters  !  These 
little  duchesses  and  countesses,  whose  heads  are  so 
virile,  can  write  masterpieces  of  another  kind  when 
the}''  choose.  These  are  as  fine  from  end  to  end  as  the 
famous  ode  of  Piron  —  " 

"Really?" 

"  Should  you  like  to  see  them?  "  said  Jacques  Collin, 
smiling. 

The  magistrate  felt  ashamed. 

"  I  can  let  you  read  them,  but  no  nonsense  about  it ! 
We  are  playing  a  fair  game,  are  not  we?  You  are  to 
give  me  back  the  letters,  and  3'ou  must  forbid  that  the 
person  who  brings  them  shall  be  watched,  or  followed, 
or  even  looked  at." 

"  But  it  will  take  time  to  get  them,"  said  the  attor- 
ne^'-general. 

"  No,    it   is   half-past    nine,"   said   Jacques   Collin, 

Jo 


354  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

glancing  at  the  clock.  "Well,  in  four  minutes  3'ou 
shall  have  a  letter  from  each  of  those  ladies,  and  after 
having  read  them  3'ou  must  countermand  the  guillotine. 
If  I  could  n't  do  all  this,  I  should  n't  be  as  calm  as  you 
now  see  me.  Moreover,  those  ladies  have  been  warned 
alread}^" 

Monsieur  de  Granville  made  a  gesture  of  surprise. 

"They  are  already  in  motion;  the  Keeper  of  the 
Seals  has  been  set  to  work,  and  they  may  go,  who 
knows?  to  the  king.  Come,  give  me  your  word  to 
take  no  notice  of  who  comes  here,  and  not  to  allow 
that  person  to  be  followed." 

"  I  give  you  my  word." 

"  Good  ;  I  know  you,  — you  are  above  deceiving  an 
escaped  convict.  You  are  of  the  wood  Turennes  are 
made  of,  and  you  would  keep  your  word  to  a  thief. 
Well !  there  is  at  this  moment  in  the  Salle  des  Pas- 
Perdus  an  old  beggar-woman,  standing  about  the  mid- 
dle of  the  hall.  Very  likely  she  is  talking  with  some  of 
those  public  writers.  Send  your  office  servant  to  fetch 
her ;  he  must  say  to  her,  Dabor  ti  mandana.  She 
will  come.  But  don't  be  unnecessarily  cruel.  Either 
accept  m}'  propositions,  or  sa}'  3'ou  will  not  make  bar- 
gains with  a  felon  (as  for  that,  I  am  only  a  forger, 
remember),  but  do  not  leave  Calvi  in  the  agony  of 
thinking  this  his  last  hour." 

"  The  execution  is  already  countermanded.     I  do  not 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  355 

wish,  as  you  will  now  sec,  that  justice  should  be  behind 
you  in  trustfulness." 

Jacques  Collin  looked  at  the  attorney-general  with 
wonder  as  he  went  to  the  bell  and  rang  it. 

^'  You  have  no  intention  of  escaping?  Giv^e  me  your 
word  that  you  have  not,  and  I  am  satisfied.  You  shall 
go  yourself  and  find  that  woman." 

The  office  servant  entered. 

"  Felix,  send  awa}^  the  gendarmes,"  said  Monsieur 
de  Granville. 

Jacques  Collin  was  vanquished.  In  this  duel  with 
the  magistrate,  he  meant  to  have  been  the  grander, 
the  stronger,  the  more  generous  of  the  two,  and  the 
magistrate  had  risen  above  him.  Nevertheless,  the  ex- 
convict  still  felt  himself  superior  in  one  respect ;  he  was 
cheating  the  law,  persuading  it  that  the  guilty-  was 
innocent,  and  victoriousl}'  forcing  it  to  give  up  a  head. 
On  the  other  hand,  this  triumph  must  needs  be  dumb, 
secret,  unseen,  whereas  the  Cicogne  rose  superior  to 
him  in  open  day,  majestically'. 

At  the  moment  when  Jacques  Collin  left  Monsieur 
de  Granville's  office,  the  secretarj'-general  of  the  Coun- 
cil, a  deput}',  the  Comte  des  Lupeaulx,  presented  him- 
self, accompanied  b}'  a  feeble  old  man.  The  latter, 
wrapped  in  a  wadded  brown  coat  as  if  it  were  still 
winter,  with  white  hair  and  a  wan,  cold  face,  walked 
like  a  gouty  man  leaning  on  a  gold-headed  cane.     His 


356  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

head  was  bare,  he  carried  his  hat  in  his  hand  and  wore 
in  his  buttonhole  a  bar  with  seven  crosses. 

"What  brings  30U,  my  dear  des  Lupeaulx?"  asked 
the  attornej'-general. 

"  The  prince  sends  me,"  answered  the  secretar}'  in 
a  whisper.  "  You  have  carte  blanche  to  recover  the 
letters  of  Mesdames  de  Serizy  and  de  Maufrigneuse, 
and  those  of  Mademoiselle  de  Grandlieu.  You  can 
arrange  matters  with  the  gentleman  I  have  brought 
with  me." 

"  Who  is  he?"  asked  the  attorney-general. 

"I  have  no  secrets  from  3'ou,  my  dear  count;  he 
is  the  famous  Corentin.  His  Majesty  sends  3'ou  word 
b3'me  to  report  to  him  all  the  circumstances  of  the  case 
and  the  conditions  on  which  success  may  be  obtained." 

"  Do  me  the  favor,"  replied  the  attorne\'-general, 
still  whispering,  "  to  say  to  the  prince  that  the  affair 
is  alread}^  settled,  and  that  I  do  not  need  the  services 
of  that  gentleman.  I  will  go  myself  and  take  the  or- 
ders of  his  Majest}'  as  to  the  conclusion  of  the  affair, 
which  concerns  the  Keeper  of  the  Seals,  for  two  par- 
dons will  have  to  be  granted." 

"You  have  acted  wisely  in  following  up  the  matter 
so  promptl}',"  said  des  Lupeaulx,  shaking  hands  with 
the  attorney-general.  "The  king  is  anxious  lest  the 
peerage  and  these  great  families  should  be  attacked 
and  vilified  on  the  eve  of  his  great  effort,  —  which  3'ou 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  357 

know  of.     The  matter  is  not  a  mere  criminal  trial,  it  is 
really  an  affair  of  State." 

"  But  tell  the  prince  that  all  was  settled  before  you 
came  to  me." 

'' Really?" 

''  I  think  so." 

"  Then  you  '11  be  the  Keeper  of  the  Seals,  ni}'  dear 
fellow,  when  the  present  incumbent  is  made  chancellor." 

''  I  have  no  ambition,"  replied  the  attorn ej-general. 

Des  Lupeaulx  went  awa}',  laughing. 

"  Beg  the  prince  to  ask  an  audience  for  me  with  the 
king  about  half-past  two  o'clock,"  said  Monsieur  de 
Granville,  as  he  accompanied  des  Lupeaulx  to  the 
door. 

"And  you  are  not  ambitious!"  said  des  Lupeaulx, 
with  a  sly  look  at  de  Granville.  ''  Well,  well,  3'ou 
have  two  children,  and  you  want  to  be  made  peer  of 
France." 

"  If  Monsieur  le  comte  has  those  letters,  m}'  inter- 
vention is  useless,"  remarked  Corentin,  when  alone  with 
Monsieur  de  Granville,  who  looked  at  him  with  a 
curiosit}'  that  is  easily  understood. 

"  A  man  like  3'ou  can  never  be  useless  in  so  deli- 
cate an  affair,"  replied  the  attorney-general,  seeing  that 
Corentin  had  either  overheard  or  guessed  all. 

Corentin  bowed  with  a  little  nod  of  the  head  that  was 
almost  patronizing. 


358  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

"Do  you  know  tlie  person  concerned?"  asked  the 
attorne3--general. 

"  Yes,  monsieur  le  comte  ;  it  is  Jacques  Collin,  the 
head  of  the  Societ}'  of  the  Ten  Thousand,  the  banker 
of  the  galleys,  an  escaped  convict,  who  for  the  last  five 
years  has  managed  to  hide  himself  under  the  cassock 
of  the  Abbe  Carlos  Herrera.  How  he  became  actuall}'' 
charged  with  a  mission  from  the  King  of  Spain  to  the 
late  King,  I  cannot  tell  you  ;  we  are  baffled,  so  far,  in 
all  inquiries  on  this  point.  I  am  now  expecting  an 
answer  from  Madrid,  where  I  have  sent  notes  of  the 
alfair  b}'  a  trusty  man.  The 'fellow  holds  the  secrets  of 
two  kings." 

"  He  is  a  man  of  vigorous  nature.  We  have  but  two 
wa3's  of  dealing  with  him,  —  either  to  attach  him  to  our 
service,  or  get  rid  of  him,"  said  the  attorne3'-general. 

'*  You  and  I  have  the  same  idea,  which  is  a  great 
honor  for  me,"  replied  Corentin.  "I  am  obliged  to 
have  so  many  ideas,  for  so  man}'  persons,  that  among 
the  number  I  ought  sometimes  to  meet  with  a  man  of 
sense." 

This  was  said  in  so  ^vy  and  icy  a  tone  that  the 
attorne3'-general  kept  silence,  and  busied  himself  in 
attending  to  certain  other  pressing  matters. 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  359 


X. 


IN    WHICH    JACQUES     COLLIN     PREPARES     FOR     HIS     DEBUT 
AS    A    COMEDIAN. 

No  one  can  imagine  the  amazement  of  Mademoiselle 
Jacqueline  Collin  when  Jacques  Collin  appeared  in  the 
Salle  des  Pas-Perdus.  She  stood  planted  on  her  two 
legs,  with  lier  hands  on  her  hips,  for  she  was  dressed 
as  a  hawker  of  vegetables.  Accustomed  as  she  was 
to  w^onderful  exhibitions  of  her  nephew's  power,  this 
exceeded  all. 

"  Well,  if  3'ou  stand  there  gazing  at  me  as  if  I  were  a 
museum  of  natural  histor},"  said  Jacques  Collin,  taking 
his  aunt's  arm  and  leading  her  out  of  the  Salle,  "  we 
shall  be  taken  for  two  curiosities  ;  the\'  might  arrest  us, 
and  that  would  be  losing  time." 

So  saying,  he  went  down  the  staircase  from  the 
Galerie  Marchande  which  leads  to  the  rue  de  la 
Barillerie. 

"  Where  is  Paccard?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  is  waiting  for  me  near  La  Rousse's,  — walking 
up  and  down  the  quai  aux  Fleurs." 

"  And  Prudence?  " 


360  The  Last  I near  tuition  of  Vaittrin. 

''  She  is  living  there  as  my  god-daughter." 

*'  We  'II  go  there." 

"  See  if  we  are  followed." 

La  Rousse,  a  dealer  in  hardware,  with  a  shop  on  the 
qnai  aiix  Fleurs,  was  at  one  time  the  widow  of  a  noted 
criminal,  —  a  member  of  the  Ten  Thousand.  In  1819 
Jacques  Collin  had  faithfully  paid  over  twentj'  odd 
thousand  francs  to  the  girl  after  the  execution  of  her 
lover.  Trompe-la-Morte  alone  knew  of  the  intimacy  of 
this  young  woman,  then  a  milliner,  with  his  fanandel. 

"  I  am  the  dab  of  your  man,"  he  said  to  her  (this 
was  during  the  period  when  he  was  living  with  Madame 
Vauquer).  "  He  must  have  spoken  to  you  of  me,  my 
dear.  Whoever  betrays  me  dies  within  a  year ;  who- 
ever is  faithful  need  never  fear  me.  I  am  a  friend  who 
will  die  sooner  than  say  a  word  that  injures  those  to 
whom  I  wish  well.  Be  faithful  to  me  as  the  soul  is  to 
the  devil,  and  you  shall  profit  b}'  it.  I  promised  your 
poor  Auguste  that  you  should  be  made  happ}'.  He 
wanted  to  see  3'ou  well  off,  and  he  let  them  fauclier 
him  for  your  sake.  Don't  cry.  Listen  to  me  :  no  one 
knows  but  me  that  you  were  the  mistress  of  a  convict, 
a  murderer  buried  Saturda}' ;  and  never  will  I  tell  it. 
You  are  twenty-two  years  old,  and  pretty  ;  and  here 
you  are,  rich,  with  twenty  thousand  francs.  Forget 
Auguste,  marr}',  and  make  yourself  an  honest  woman 
if  3'ou  can.     In  return  for  this  tranquillity^  I  want  you 


The  Last  iRcarnation  of  Vautrin.  361 

to  serve  me  —  me  and  aii}'  one  I  send  to  you  —  with- 
out hesitating.  I  will  never  ask  anything  that  may 
compromise  either  you  or  your  children  or  your  hus- 
band, if  you  have  one.  In  mj-  business  I  often  want  a 
safe  place  in  which  to  talk  with  persons,  or  to  hide  ;  I 
need  a  discreet  woman  to  carr^'  a  letter,  or  do  an 
errand.  You  shall  be  m}'  letter-box,  my  lodge,  one  of 
m}'  emissaries, —  nothing  more,  and  nothing  less.  You 
are  too  blond  ;  Auguste  and  I  always  called  you  La 
Rousse,  and  you  shall  keep  the  name.  My  aunt,  the 
marchande  in  the  Temple,  to  whom  I  '11  introduce  you, 
will  be  the  only  person  in  the  world  whom  you  are 
hound  to  obey.  Tell  her  everything  that  happens  to 
3'ou ;  she  will  mair}'  you,  and  you  will  find  her  very 
useful." 

In  this  manner  was  concluded  one  of  those  diabolical 
compacts,  like  the  one  which  bound  Prudence  Servien, 
—  compacts  which  this  man  never  failed  to  keep  up, 
and  to  strengthen  and  cement,  for,  like  Satan  himself, 
he  had  the  lust  of  recruiting. 

Jacqueline  Collin  had  married  La  Rousse  in  1821  to 
the  head-clerk  of  a  wholesale  iron-monger.  This  man, 
having  bought  out  his  patron's  business,  was  now  on 
the  high-road  to  prosperit}',  the  father  of  two  children, 
and  the  assistant-mayor  of  his  district.  Never  did  La 
Rousse,  now  Madame  Prelard,  have  the  slightest 
ground  of  complaint  against  either  Jacques  Collin  or 


362  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

his  aunt,  who  kept  faithfulh'  to  the  terms  of  tlie  agree- 
ment ;  but,  at  ever}'  service  asked  of  her,  Madame 
Prelard  trembled  in  all  her  limbs.  She  now  became 
white  and  livid  as  she  saw  these  two  terrible  person- 
ages enter  her  shop. 

"  We  have  come  to  talk  to  3'on  on  business,  madame," 
said  Jacques  Collin. 

"  My  husband  is  there,"  she  answered. 

"Well,  then,  I  won't  take  up  your  time;  I  never 
disturb  people  unnecessarily." 

"  Send  for  a  hackne^^-coach,  my  dear,"  said  Jacque- 
line Collin,  "and  tell  my  goddaughter  to  come  down  ;  I 
think  I  have  found  her  a  place  as  maid  to  a  great  ladj', 
and  the  steward  of  the  household  wants  to  take  her 
there." 

Paccard,  who  looked  like  a  gendarme  turned  into  a 
a  bourgeois^  was  talking  at  this  moment  with  Monsieur 
Prelard  about  an  important  purchase  of  iron  wire  for  a 
bridge. 

A  clerk  fetched  a  coach,  and  a  few  moments  later 
Europe,  or  rather  Prudence  Servien,  Paccard,  Jacques 
Collin,  and  his  aunt  were,  to  the  great  J03'  of  Madame 
Prelard,  seated  in  the  vehicle,  while  Trompe-la-Mort 
gave  the  order  to  drive  to  the  Barriere  d'Ivr3\ 

Prudence  and  Paccard,  trembling  before  the  ddh^ 
resembled  what  we  have  heard  of  guilt}-  souls  in  the 
last  judgment. 


The  Last  Incar7iation  of  Vautrin.  363 

"  Where  are  the  seven  hundred  and  fift}'  thousand 
francs?"  demanded  the  ddb^  [)Uinging  upon  them  one 
of  his  fixed,  clear  looks,  which  so  turned  the  blood  of 
these  lost  souls,  conscious  of  guilt,  that  they  fancied 
the\'  had  more  pins  than  hairs  on  their  heads. 

"The  seven  hundred  and  thirty  thousand  francs." 
replied  Jacqueline,  speaking  for  the  other  two,  "  are  in 
safet}'.  I  placed  them  this  morning  in  La  Romette's 
care,  in  a  sealed  package." 

"If  3'ou  had  not  given  them  to  Jacqueline,"  said 
Trompe-la-Mort,  "3'ou  were  going  straight  there  "  point- 
ing to  the  place  de  Greve,  which  the  vehicle  was  then 
passing. 

Prudence  made  a  sign  of  the  cross,  as  the}"  do  in 
her  country  when  the  lightning  falls. 

"I  forgive  3'ou,"  continued  the  dab,  "on  condition 
that  3'ou  never  commit  such  a  fault  again,  and  that 
henceforth  3'OU  are  to  me  what  those  two  fingers  of 
m}'  right  hand  are,"  and  he  held  up  the  first  and  mid- 
dle fingers  ;  "as  for  the  thumb,  that 's  m}'  good  largue 
here  !  "  (striking  his  aunt's  shoulder).  "  Now  listen  to 
me.  Henceforth,  Paccard,  you  've  nothing  to  fear  ;  you 
may  follow  3'our  nose  about  Paris  at  3'our  case.  I  per- 
mit vou  to  marr}'  Prudence." 

Paccard  caught  up  Jacques  Collin's  hand  and  kissed 
it. 

**  What  shall  I  have  to  do?"  he  asked. 


364  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

"Nothing;  you'll  have  an  income  and  wives,  not 
counting  30ur  own  ;  for  ^-ou  are  terribh'  Regence,  old 
man !  That 's  what  it  is  to  be  such  a  handsome 
fellow." 

Paccard  blushed  on  receiving  this  satirical  eulogy 
from  his  sultan. 

"As  for  you,  Prudence,"  continued  Jacques  Collin, 
"  3'ou  need  a  career,  a  position,  a  future ;  I  shall  keep 
30U  in  m}'  service.  Listen  to  me  carefully.  In  the 
rue  Sainte-Barbe  there's  a  very  good  establishment  be- 
lon^ino;  to  that  Madame  de  Saint-Esteve  whose  name 
my  aunt  sometimes  borrows.  It  is  a  good  business, 
with  a  fine  custom  which  brings  in  from  fifteen  to 
twenty  thousand  francs  a  year.  La  Saint-P^steve  puts 
in  as  manager  —  " 

"La  Gonore,"  said  Jacqueline. 

"  The  largue  of  that  poor  La  Pouraille,"  said  Paccard  ; 
"  that's  where  Europe  and  I  hid  the  day  poor  Madame 
van  Gobseck,  our  mistress  —  " 

"  Who  gabbles  when  I  am  speaking?  "  said  Jacques 
Collin. 

Profound  silence  reigned  in  the  coach.  Neither  Pru- 
dence nor  Paccard  dared  even  look  at  each  other. 

"The  house  is  kept  by  La  Gonore,"  resumed  Jacques 
Collin.  "  If  you  hid  there  with  Prudence,  Paccard,  I 
see  you  have  sense  enough  to  esquinter  la  raille  (clieat 
tlie  police) ;  but  you  could  n't  f aire  voir  des  couleurs  d  la 


Tlie  Lust  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  365 

darhonne  (deceive  her),"  he  continued,  stroking  his 
aunt's  chin.  "  I  see  now  how  it  was  she  found  you  ! 
Very  good.  I  resume  ;  Jacquehne  will  negotiate  with 
Madame  de  Saint-Esteve  for  the  purcliase  of  that  estab- 
lishment in  the  rue  Sainte-Barbe,  and  you  can  make 
a  fortune  there,  m}'  girl,"  he  said  to  Prudence,  "  if  you 
behave  properly.  Abbess,  at  your  age  !  It  is  the  for- 
tune of  a  king's  daughter ! "  he  added  in  a  sarcastic 
tone. 

Prudence  threw  herself  upon  his  breast  and  kissed 
him ;  but,  with  a  sharp  tap  which  showed  his  extraor- 
dinary strength,  the  ddb  repulsed  her  so  violently  that 
if  Paccard  had  not  caught  the  girl  she  would  have 
struck  her  head  against  the  window  of  the  coach  and 
broken  it. 

*'  Paws  down  !  I  don't  like  such  manners,"  said  the 
ddh^  harshh' ;    "they  are  disrespectful  to  me." 

"He  is  right,  my  girl,"  said  Paccard.  "Don't  you 
see,  it  is  just  as  if  the  ddh  had  given  you  a  hundred 
thousand  francs.  The  shop  is  worth  that.  It  is  on 
the  boulevard,  opposite  to  the  G3'mnase  ;  it  takes  the 
theatre-goers  when  the}^  come  out." 

"  I  shall  do  better  than  tliat,"  said  Trompe-la-Mort. 
"I  intend  to  buy  the  house  — " 

"  M}' !  we  shall  be  rich  b}'  millions  in  six  j'ears," 
cried  Paccard. 

Weary   of  being   interrupted,   Trompe-la-lSrort   sent 


366  The  Last  Incarnation  of  VaiUrin. 

a  kick  into  Paccard's  tibia  that  miglit  have  broken  that 
of  another  man  ;  but  PaccarcVs  muscles  were  inclia  rub- 
ber and  his  bones  tin. 

"  Enough,  ddh !     I'll  be  silent,"  he  responded. 

"Do  you  think  I'm  talking  nonsense,"  resumed 
Trompe-la-Mort,  who  now  noticed  that  Paccard  had 
taken  a  glass  or  so  too  much.  "  Now  attend.  In  the 
cellar  of  that  house  are  two  hundred  and  fift}^  thou- 
sand francs  in  gold."  Deep  silence  reigned  in  the  coach. 
"  This  gold  is  buried  under  a  solid  mass  of  stone  and 
cement.  It  is  necessarj'  to  get  at  that  mone}^  and  you 
have  onl}^  three  nights  to  do  it  in.  Jacqueline  will 
help  you.  One  hundred  thousand  will  pa}'  for  the 
business  and  lift}'  thousand  for  the  house  ;  you  are  to 
leave  the  rest." 

"Where?"  asked  Paccard. 

"  In  the  cellar  !  "  exclaimed  Prudence. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Jacqueline. 

"Yes,  but  in  order  to  get  the  business  transferred 
la  raille  (police)  must  give  a  permit,"  said  Paccard. 

"  They  will,"  said  Trompe-la-Mort,  curtly.  '•  Mind 
3'our  own  business." 

Jacqueline  looked  at  her  nephew,  and  was  struck 
with  the  change  in  that  face,  visible  through  even  the 
impassible  mask  beneath  which  the  strong  man  habitu- 
ally concealed  his  emotions. 

"  M}'  dear,"  said  Jacques  Collin  to  Prudence  Servien, 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  367 

*'  my  aunt  will  give  you  the  seven  hunclred  and  fifty 
thousand  francs  —  " 

"  Seven  linndi-ed  and  tJiirty''  said  Paccard. 

"Well,  so  be  it,  —  seven  hundred  and  thirty!"  re- 
sumed Jacques  Collin.  "To-night  you  must  get  hack 
in  some  wa}'  or  other  into  Madame  Lueien's  house. 
Go  up  through  the  skylight  to  the  roof,  down  the 
chimne}'  to  your  late  mistress's  bedroom,  and  put  the 
packet  containing  the  monej'  in  the  mattress  of  her 
bed  —  " 

'' Wh}^  not  go  in  by  the  door  of  the  apartment?" 
asked  Prudence. 

"  Idiot!  the  seals  are  on  it,"  replied  Jacques  Collin. 
"The  inventory  wnl)  be  taken  in  a  few  days,  and  it  will 
then  appear  that  you  are  innocent  of  the  robber}'." 

"  Vwe  le  dub  f  cried  Paccard.    "  What  kindness  !  " 

''Driver,  stop!"  called  out  Jacques  Collin  in  his 
powerful  voice. 

The  coach  drew  up  near  the  stand  of  hacknej'-coaches 
by  the  Jardin  des  Plantes. 

"  Off  with  you,  my  children,"  said  Jacques  ColUn  to 
Prudence  and  Paccard,  "  and  don't  commit  any  follies. 
Be  to-night  on  the  Pont  des  Arts  about  five  o'clock. 
My  aunt  will  be  there  and  tell  you  if  there  is  any  coun- 
ter order.  One  must  foresee  everytliing, "  he  whispered 
to  his  aunt.  "  Jacqueline  will  explain  to  you  to-mor- 
row," he  added,  "how  you  can  go  to  work  to  get  the 


368  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

gold  out  of  the  profonde  without  danger.  It  is  a  deli- 
cate operation." 

Prudence  and  Paccard  s-prang  out  upon  the  pavement 
as  happy  as  pardoned  thieves. 

"  Ah,  what  a  man  he  is,  our  dab!''  cried  Paccard. 

*'He'd  be  the  king  of  men  if  he  didn't  despise 
women  so." 

"  Ha  !  is  n't  he  amiable?"  exclaimed  Paccard.  ''  Did 
3'ou  see  the  kick  he  gave  me  ?  We  deserved  to  be  sent 
ad  pat7'es ;  for  it  was  our  filching  that  money  that  got 
him  into  all  these  troubles." 

"  Let's  hope,"  said  the  keener  and  wiser  Prudence, 
"  that  he  is  n't  getting  us  into  some  crime  in  hopes  of 
sending  us  to  the  pre.'^ 

"He!  if  he  meant  that  he'd  sa}'  so.  You  don't 
know  him.  What  a  fine  career  he  has  made  for  you ! 
Wh}',  here  we  are,  regular  bourgeois !  What  luck ! 
Oh,  when  he  likes  you,  that  man,  he  has  n't  his  equal 
for  goodness ! " 

"  Minette,"  said  Jacques  Collin  to  his  aunt,  "  take 
charge  3'ourself  of  La  Gonore ;  you  must  keep  her 
quiet.  In  five  days  from  now  she  will  be  arrested,  and 
they  will  find  in  her  room  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
francs  in  gold  which  remain  from  another  share  in  the 
murder  of  the  Crottats  —  " 

"But  that  will  give  her  five  years  in  the  Madelon- 
nettes,"  said  Jacqueline. 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  369 

*'  About  that,"  replied  Jacques  Collin.  "•  And  it  is 
a  good  reason  why  the  Saint-P2steve  should  sell  her 
house.  She  can't  manage  it  herself,  and  she  won't  find 
the  right  kind  of  deputy  when  she  wants  her.  Conse- 
quently, you  can  easily  arrange  tlie  matter.  We  want 
an  eye  there.  But  all  these  operations  are  secondary  to 
the  negotiation  I  am  now  engaged  in  about  the  letters. 
Unrip  your  gown,  and  give  me  those  specimens  of  our 
merchandise.     AVhere  are  the  three  packets?  " 

"  Parbleu!     La  Kousse  has  them." 

''  Driver,"  cried  Jacques  Collin,  "  turn  round,  and  go 
to  the  Palais  de  Justice,  and  make  haste  !  —  I  promised 
celerit}',  and  I've  been  gone  over  half  an  hour;  it  is 
too  much.  Stay  with  La  Rousse  yourself,  and  give  the 
three  packets,  sealed  up,  to  an  office-servant  who  will 
come  there  and  ask  for  Madame  de  Saint-Esteve.  The 
de  is  the  password;  he'll  say  to  you,  'Madame,  I 
have  come  from  the  attorne^'-general  for  tlie  things  3'ou 
know  of.'  Stand  outside  the  house,  and  be  looking  at 
what  goes  on  in  the  flower-market,  so  as  not  to  excite 
Prelard's  attention.  As  soon  as  you  have  given  up  the 
letters,  go  to  work  with  Prudence  and  Paccard." 

"  I  see  what  j^ou  are  after,"  said  Jacqueline;  "you 
want  to  take  Bibi-Lupin's  place.  Lucien's  death  has 
turned  your  brain." 

"  And  Theodore,  whose  hair  they  meant  to  cut  at 
four  o'clock  this  afternoon." 

24 


370.  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin, 

"  Well,  after  all,  it  is  an  idea  !  We  should  end  our 
da3'S  as  honest  folk  and  bourgeois  on  some  nice  prop- 
ert}',  —  in  the  fine  climate  of  Touraine,  sa3\" 

'*  What  else  could  I  be?  Lucien  has  taken  away 
my  soul,  my  happy  life ;  I  see  thirty  3'ears  still  be- 
fore me,  and  I  have  no  heart  to  live  them.  Instead 
of  being  the  ddb  of  the  galleys,  I  shall  be  the  Figaro  of 
the  law,  and  I  '11  avenge  Lucien.  I  can  only  demolish 
Corentin  in  the  skin  of  the  police.  It  might  be  life 
still  to  have  a  man  to  pursue.  All  that  we  do  and  are 
in  life  is  but  appearance.  Reality  is  Idea  !  "  he  added, 
striking  his  forehead.  "  How  much  have  you  got  in 
the  treasury  ?  " 

*' Nothing,"  replied  his  aunt,  alarmed  bj^  the  tone 
and  manner  of  her  nephew.  "  I  gave  3'ou  all  for  3'our 
30ung  one.  La  E-omette  has  n't  more  than  twenty 
thousand  for  her  business.  I  have  taken  all  Madame 
Nourisson  had,  which  was  sixt3'  thousand  francs  of  her 
own.  Ha  !  our  sheets  have  n't  been  washed  for  a  3'ear. 
The  3'oung  one  cost  30U  all  our  mone3''  ^"^^  ^-he  fade  of 
the  Fanandels,  and  all  that  Nourisson  possessed  into 
the  bargain." 

"That  makes  — " 

''  Five  hundred  and  fift3"  thousand." 

'^  Well,  of  that  we  have-  a  hundred  and  fift3^  thousand 
in  gold  which  Paccard  and  Prudence  will  owe  us.  I  can 
tell  you  where  to  get  another  two  hundred  thousand ; 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  371 

the  rest  will  come  from  Esther's  estate.  We  must 
reimburse  the  Nourrisson.  Witli  Theodore,  Paccard, 
Prudence,  the  Nourrisson,  and  you,  I  '11  soon  have  the 
battalion  that  I  need.     Now  listen  —  " 

"  Here  are  the  three  letters,"  said  Jacqueline,  who 
by  this  time  had  given  a  last  snip  to  the  lining  of  her 
gown. 

"  Ver}'  good !  "  replied  Jacques  Collin,  receiving  the 
precious  autographs  on  vellum  paper  which  still  held  its 
perfume.     "  Theodore  did  the  trick  at  Nanterre." 

''Did  he?     How?" 

"Never  mind  how;  time  is  precious.  He  wanted 
to  give  a  worm  to  a  little  bird, — a  Corsican  named 
Ginetta.  You  must  get  la  Nourrisson  to  find  her.  I  '11 
send  3'ou  the  necessary'  information  in  a  letter  Gault 
will  hand  to  you.  Come  to  the  guichet  of  the  Conci- 
ergerie  in  two  hours  from  now.  You  must  foist  that  girl 
upon  Godet's  sister,  —  a  clear-starcher  ;  she  must  lodge 
there.  Godet  and  Ruffard  were  La  Pouraille's  accom- 
plices in  the  robbery  and  murder  of  the  Crottats.  The 
four  hundred  and  fift}'  thousand  francs  are  still  intact : 
one  third  in  La  Gonore's  cellar ;  the  second  third  in 
La  Gonore's  chamber  (that  belongs  to  Ruffard) ;  the 
third  is  Godet's,  and  it  is  hidden  somewhere  in  his  sis- 
ter's house.  AYe  will  begin  by  taking  one  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  from  La  Pouraille's  cache,  one  hundred 
from  Godet's,  one  hundred  from  Ruffard's.     Once  Ruf- 


372  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

fard  and  Godet  are  locked  up,  it  is  tliey  who  have 
made  away  with  part  of  the  money.  Prudence  and 
Paccard  will  do  the  trick  at  La  Gonore's,  and  3'ou  and 
Ginetta  (who  seems  to  me  a  sly  cat)  must  manoeuvre 
Godet's  sister.  For  my  debut  in  comed}',  I  intend  to 
make  the  Cicogne  recover  the  four  hundred  thousand 
francs  stolen  from  the  Crottats  and  find  the  guilty  par- 
ties. I  shall  seem  to  clear  up  the  affair  at  Nanterre. 
We  shall  recover  our  funds,  and  be  at  the  very  heart 
of  the  police.  We  were  the  game,  now  we  '11  be  the 
hunters,  that's  all.     Give  the  driver  three  francs." 

The  coach  stopped  before  the  Palais.  Jacqueline, 
bewildered,  paid  the  man.  Trompe-la-Mort  went  up 
the  staircase  on  his  way  back  to  the  office  of  the 
attorney-general. 


Tlie  Last  Incarjiation  of  Vautrin.  373 


XL 

MESSIEURS    LES    ANGLAIS,    FIRE    FIRST  ! 

A  TOTAL  change  of  life  is  so  violent  a  crisis  that,  in 
spite  of  his  decision  to  make  it,  Jacques  Collin  walked 
slowl}'  up  the  steps  of  the  staircase  which  leads  to  the 
Galerie  Marchande,  where,  beneath  tiie  peristyle  of  the 
court  of  assizes,  is  the  gloom}-  entrance  to  the  law 
offices.  A  political  matter  had  occasioned  a  sort  of 
gathering  at  the  foot  of  the  double  staircase  which 
leads  to  the  court  of  assizes,  so  that  the  ex-convict, 
absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts,  was  stopped  for  a  few 
moments  by  the  throng.  To  left  of  this  double  stair- 
case stands  out,  like  an  immense  pilaster,  one  of  the 
buttresses  of  the  Palais,  and  close  beside  it  is  a  small 
door.  This  small  door  gives  entrance  to  a  corkscrew 
staircase,  which  serves  as  a  wa}'  of  communication  with 
the  Conciergerie.  By  it  the  attorney-general,  the  di- 
rector of  the  prison,  the  judges  of  the  court  of  assizes, 
and  the  chief  of  the  detective  police  can  come  and  go. 
It  was  b}"  a  branch  of  tliis  staircase,  now  disused,  that 
Marie-Antoinette,  queen  of  France,  was  taken  before 


374  The  Last  Incarnation  of  VaiUrin. 

the  Revolution aiy  tribunal  which  sat,  as  we  know,  in 
the  great  and  solemn  hall  of  the  court  of  appeals. 

The  heart  shrinks  at  the  sight  of  this  dreadful  stair- 
way when  we  think  that  the  daughter  of  Maria  Theresa, 
whose  head-dress  and  hoop  once  filled  the  grand  stair- 
case at  Versailles,  passed  this  wa}'.  AVas  she  expiating 
the  crime  of  her  mother,  —  the  odious  partitioning  of 
Poland?  Sovereigns  who  commit  such  crimes  do  not 
think  of  the  retribution  demanded  by  Providence. 

At  the  moment  when  Jacques  Collin  was  about  to 
enter  the  vaulted  passage-wa}^  beneath  the  staircase, 
Bibi-Lupin  came  out  hy  the  little  door  in  the  buttressed 
wall.  The  chief  of  the  detective  police  was  coming 
from  the  Conciergerie,  and  was  also  on  his  way  to  the 
attorney-general's  office.  We  can  imagine  the  amaze- 
ment of  Bibi-Lupin  when  he  saw  before  him  the  well- 
known  overcoat  of  Carlos  Herrera,  which  he  had 
watched  and  studied  for  some  hours  that  morning. 
He  ran  to  head  him  off.  Hearing  steps,  Jacques  Collin 
turned  round.  The  two  enemies  stood  face  to  face. 
Each  stood  still,  and  the  same  look  darted  from  each 
pair  of  eyes,  different  as  they  were,  like  two  pistol-shots 
in  a  duel  fired  at  the  same  instant. 

'*  Ha  !  this  time  I  have  3'ou,  brigand  ! "  cried  the 
chief  of  police. 

"  Ha!  ha!"  replied  Jacques  Collin,  ironically.  The 
thought  crossed  his  mind  that  Monsieur  de  Granville 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  375 

had  ordered  him  to  be  followed  ;  and,  strange  fact  1 
it  gave  him  pain  to  think  that  man  less  great  than  he 
imagined  him. 

Bibi-Lupin  sprang  courageously  at  Jacques  Collin's 
throat ;  but  the  latter,  with  his  e3'e  on  his  adversary, 
received  him  witli  a  sharp  blow  which  sent  the  man 
six  feet  off  with  his  heels  in  the  air.  Trompe-la-Morte 
went  composed!}'  up  to  Bibi-Lupin  and  offered  him  a 
hand  to  rise,  —  precisel}'  like  an  English  boxer,  who, 
sure  of  his  strength,  is  readj'  for  the  next  round.  Bibi- 
Lupin  was  much  too  strong  a  man  to  make  an  outer}' ; 
but  he  sprang  up,  ran  to  the  entrance  of  the  corridor, 
and  signed  to  a  gendarme  to  stand  there  on  guard. 
Then,  with  the  rapidity  of  lightning,  he  returned  to  his 
enem}',  who  was  watching  his  proceedings  tranquilly. 
Jacques  Collin  had  made  up  his  mind :  either  the  attor- 
torne3'-general  had  broken  his  word  to  him,  or  he  had 
not  taken  Bibi-Lupin  into  his  confidence  ;  in  which  case 
it  was  necessary  to  explain  his  position. 

"Do  you  mean  to  arrest  me?"  he  asked  of  his 
enemy.  *'  Say  so  without  more  ado.  Don't  I  know 
that  in  the  heart  of  the  Palais  you  are  stronger  than 
I?  I  could  kill  you  where  you  stand,  but  I  couldn't 
massacre  all  the  gendarmes  of  the  line.  Let 's  have 
no  noise  about  it ;  where  do  3'ou  want  to  take  me  ?  " 
-  *'  To  Monsieur  Camusot." 

"Very  good;    to  Monsieur   Camusot,"   responded 


376  The  Last  hicarnatioii  of  Vautrin. 

Jacques  Collin.  "But  why  not  to  the  attorne3'-gen- 
eral? — it  is  nearer,"  he  added. 

Bibi-Lupin,  who  knew  himself  out  of  favor  in  the 
higher  regions  of  judicial  power,  being  suspected  of 
making  his  fortune  out  of  criminals  and  their  victims, 
was  not  unwilling  to  appear  before  the  attorney-general 
with  so  fine  a  capture. 

'•We  will  go  there,"  he  said,  "that  suits  me.  But, 
since  you  surrender,  you  must  let  me  trim  you  ;  I  'm 
afraid  of  your  claws." 

So  saving  he  drew  a  pair  of  handcuffs  from  his 
pocket.  Jacques  Collin  held  out  his  hands,  and  Bibi- 
Lupin  fitted  them  on. 

"  Ah  qa!''  said  the  latter,  "  since  you  are  so  good- 
humored,  just  tell  me  how  you  got  out  of  the  Con- 
ciergerie." 

"  By  the  same  way  3'ou  did,  —  the  little  staircase." 

"  Then  you  must  have  played  some  trick  on  the 
gendarmes  ?  " 

"No;  Monsieur  de  Granville  set  me  at  libert}^  on 
parole." 

'•'-  Planches-tu9  (are  you  joking?)'' 

"You'll  see  if  I  am.  Maybe  the  handcuffs  will  go 
on  you  next." 

At  this  instant  Corentin,  whom  we  left  in  the  attor- 
ney-general's office,  was  saying  to  that  magistrate  : 

"  Well,  monsieur,  it   is  an  hour  since  our  man  de- 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  Zll 

parted ;  are  not  you  afraid  he  has  given  you  the  slip  ? 
He  may  be  ah-ead}'  on  the  road  to  Spain,  and  we  shall 
never  recover  him  or  the  letters,  for  Spain  is  a  very 
visionary  land." 

''Either  I  don't  know  men,  or  he  will  return,"  re- 
phed  Monsieur  de  Granville.  "  All  his  own  interests 
oblige  him  to  return ;  he  has  more  to  gain  from  me 
than  I  from  him." 

At  this  moment  Bibi-Lupin  appeared. 

"Monsieur  le  comtc,"  he  said,  "I  have  some  good 
news  to  give  you.  Jacques  Collin,  who  had  escaped, 
is  retaken." 

"  See  !  "  cried  Jacques  Collin,  "  how  3'ou  have  kept 
3'our  word.  Ask  your  double-faced  agent  where  he 
found  me." 

"Where?"    asked  the  attorney-general. 

"Not  two  steps  from  the  parquet"  replied  Bibi- 
Lupin. 

"  Relieve  that  man  of  3'our  irons,"  said  Monsieur  de 
Granville,  sternh'.  "Remember  that  until  you  get 
further  orders  this  man  is  to  be  left  at  libert3\  Go 
out !  3'OU  are  too  much  in  the  habit  of  talking  and  act- 
ing as  if  3'OU  alone  were  the  police,  and  the  law  too." 

So  sa3'ing,  the  attorne3'-general  turned  his  back  on 
the  chief  of  the  detective  police,  who  became  livid, 
especiall3"  after  receiving  a  glance  from  Jacques  Collin 
which  seemed  to  him  to  foretell  his  downfall. 


378  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

*'  I  have  not  left  m}'  office  ;  I  was  waiting  for  you; 
you  cannot  doubt  that  I  have  kept  my  word,  as  3'ou  have 
kept  yours,"  said  Monsieur  de  Granville  to  Jacques 
Collin. 

*'At  the  first  moment  I  doubted  you,  Monsieur  le 
comte ;  perhaps  in  my  place  you  would  have  thought 
as  I  did  ;  but  reflection  showed  me  that  I  was  unjust. 
I  bring  you  more  than  you  can  give  me  ;  you  had  no 
interest  in  betraying  me." 

The  attornej'-general  exchanged  a  rapid  glance  with 
Corentin.  That  glance  could  not  escape  Trompe-la- 
Mort,  whose  attention  was  concentrated  on  Monsieur 
de  Granville  ;  he  turned  and  saw  a  little  old  man,  en- 
sconced in  an  arm-chair  in  a  corner  of  the  room.  In- 
stantl}',  warned  by  that  keen  and  rapid  instinct  which 
tells  of  the  presence  of  an  enem}',  Jacques  Collin  ex- 
amined this  personage ;  he  saw  at  a  glance  that  the 
eyes  were  not  of  the  same  age  as  the  rest  of  the  per- 
son and  the  style  of  the  clothes,  and  he  was  sure  of 
a  disguise. 

''We  are  not  alone!"   he  said. 

"  No,"  replied  the  attorne3'-general,  briefl}^ 

"  Monsieur  is,  I  think,"  said  the  ex-convict,  "  one  of 
my  best  acquaintances." 

He  took  a  step  toward  the  old  man,  and  recognized 
Corentin,  the  real  and  avowed  author  of  Lucien's  down- 
fall.    Jacques  Collin,  whose  face  was  a  brick-red,  be- 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  379 

came,  for  an  almost  imperceptible  moment,  pale  and 
nearly  white ;  all  his  blood  rushed  to  his  heart,  so  hot 
and  frenzied  was  his  desire  to  spring  upon  that  danger- 
ous beast  and  crush  him.  But  he  drove  back  the  brutal 
desire,  and  restrained  it  b}'  the  force  which  made  him 
so  terrible.  He  assumed  a  friendly  air  and  a  tone  of 
obsequious  politeness,  —  the  habit  of  which  he  had  ac- 
quired while  playing  the  r61e  of  an  ecclesiastic  of  the 
higher  order.     He  bowed  to  the  little  old  man. 

"Monsieur  Corentin,"  he  said,  "is  it  to  accident 
that  I  owe  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you,  or  am  I  for- 
tunate enough  to  be  the  object  of  your  visit  to  the 
Parquet?" 

The  amazement  of  the  attorne3'-general  was  great ;  he 
set  himself  to  examine  the  two  men  now  brought  face  to 
face  with  each  other.  Jacques  Collin's  movements  and 
words  denoted  a  crisis,  and  he  was  curious  to  under- 
stand the  meaning  of  it.  On  this  sudden  and  miracu- 
lous recognition  of  his  personalit}',  Corentin  started  up 
like  a  snake  whose  tail  has  been  trodden  on. 

*'  Yes,  it  is  I,  my  dear  Abbe  Carlos  Herrera." 

"  Have  you  come,"  asked  Trompe-la-Mort,  "  to  place 
yourself  between  the  attorne3'-general  and  me  ?  Am  I 
to  have  the  happiness  of  being  made  the  subject  of  a 
negotiation  which  ma}'  show  off  3'our  brilliant  talents? 
Here,  monsieur,"  said  the  convict,  turning  back  to  the 
attorney-general,  "I  won't  make  you  lose  time  so  pre- 


380  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

cious  as  yours ;  here  are  the  samples  of  my  merchan- 
dise." So  saying,  he  held  out  to  Monsieur  de  Granville 
three  letters  which  he  took  from  the  pocket  of  his  over- 
coat. "  While  3'ou  are  looking  over  them  I  will,  with 
your  permission,  converse  with  monsieur  here." 

"  That  is  too  much  honor  for  me,  monsieur,"  said 
Corentin,  who  could  not  repress  a  shght  quiver. 

''  You  obtained  a  complete  success  in  our  late  affair, 
monsieur,"  said  Jacques  Collin.  "  I  was  beaten,"  he 
added  carelessl}',  like  a  gambler  who  loses  his  mone^', 
*'  but  you  left  a  few  men  on  the  field  ;  the  victory  cost 
3^ou  something." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Corentin,  accepting  the  jest ;  "  if  3'ou 
lost  your  queen,  I  lost  both  my  castles." 

"Oh!  Contenson  was  only  a  pawn,"  said  Jacques 
Collin,  "  easil}''  replaced.  You  are,  —  permit  me  to 
give  you  this  praise  to  your  face,  —  3'ou  are,  upon  my 
honor,  a  marvellous  man." 

*'  No,  no,  I  bow  before  your  superiority,"  replied 
Corentin,  with  the  look  of  a  stage-jester,  and  as  if  he 
had  said,  "  You  want  to  blaguer,  very  good,  hlaguons  !  " 
"For  I,  you  know,  dispose  of  power,  and  3'ou, — you 
are,  so  to  speak,  alone  —  " 

"  Oh,  oh !  "  exclaimed  Jacques  Collin,  significantly. 

*'  And  you  almost  carried  the  day,"  continued  Coren- 
tin, taking  note  of  the  exclamation.  "You  are  the 
most  extraordinary  man  I  have  ever  met,  and  I  have 


Tlie  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  381 

known  many  that  were  veiy  extraordinaiy ;  for  the 
classes  with  whom  I  fight  are  all  remarkable  for  their 
audacit}'  and  their  bold  conceptions.  I  was,  unfor- 
tunately*, very  intimate  with  the  late  Due  d'Otrante. 
I  have  worked  with  Louis  XYIII.  while  he  reigned  and 
when  he  was  an  exile ;  also  for  the  Director}'  and  for 
the  Emperor.  You  are  of  the  stamp  of  Louvel,  the 
finest  political  instrument  I  have  ever  seen  ;  but  you 
have  also  the  suppleness  of  diplomats.  And  what  aux- 
iliaries you  have  !  I  'd  give  a  good  many  heads  to  the 
block  if  I  had  the  cook  of  that  poor  little  Esther  in 
m}^  service.  I  can't  find  such  people  myself;  where 
do  you  get  them?  " 

'*  Monsieur,"  replied  Jacques  Collin,  ''  3'ou  overwhelm 
me.  From  you,  such  praises  would  turn  the  head  of 
an}'  man." 

"  They  are  deserved.  Why  !  if  you  had  n't  had  that 
little  fool  of  a  poet  on  your  hands  to  defend,  you  'd 
have  routed  us  all." 

''  Ah !  monsieur,  but  I  work  underhand.  To  be 
great  and  strong  in  the  broad  daylight,  and  at  all  hours, 
it  takes  you  and  yours." 

"  Well,  come,"  said  Corentin,  "  we  are  each  convinced 
of  our  mutual  merit  and  value.  Here  we  are  now, 
both  alone.  I  have  lost  my  old  friends,  and  you  your 
young  protege.  I  am  the  stronger  for  the  moment. 
Why  should  n't  we  do  as  the  people  in  the  '  Auberge 


382  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

des  Adrets'?  I  hold  out  m}'  hand  to  3'ou  and  say: 
'  Shake  hands,  and  let's  make  an  end  of  it.'  I  offer 
you,  in  presence  of  the  attorn e3'-general,  a  full  and 
complete  pardon  ;  3'ou  shall  be  one  of  mine,  next  to 
myself  and,  possibly,  my  successor." 

"  So  it  is  a  position  that  you  are  offering  me?"  said 
Jacques  Collin.  "  A  fine  position  !  I  should  pass  from 
black  to  white." 

*'  You  would  be  in  a  sphere  where  your  talents  would 
be  appreciated  and  rewarded,  and  in  which  you  could 
act  freely  at  your  ease.  The  political  and  govern- 
mental police  has  its  perils.  I  have  already,  such  as 
you  see  me,  been  twice  imprisoned, — I'm  none  the 
worse  for  that.  But  one  travels,  one  sees  the  world  ; 
we  are  all  that  we  desire  to  be  ;  the  machinery  of  great 
political  dramas  ;  treated  politel}^  by  the  great  seigneurs. 
Come,  m}'  dear  Jacques  Collin,  will  that  suit  you?" 

"Have  you  orders  in  respect  to  this?"  asked  the 
convict. 

"I  have  full  power,"  replied  Corentin,  rejoicing  at 
his  inspiration. 

''You  are  joking;  3'Ou  are  a  very  strong  man  and 
3''ou  must  admit  that  others  ma3'  distrust  3'ou.  You 
have  sold  more  than  one  man  b3'  tying  him  in  a  sack 
into  which  you  persuaded  him  to  enter.  I  know  your 
fine  battles, —  the  Montauran  affair,  the  Simeuse  affair. 
Ha !    ha !    those  were  the  Marengos  of  spydom." 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  383 

*'  Well,"  said  Corentin,  "  you  have  confidence  in  the 
attornej'-general,  have  n't  3-011?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Jacques  Collin,  bowing  respectfullv. 
"  I  admire  his  noble  character,  his  firmness,  his  loy- 
alty, and  I  would  give  m}'  life  to  see  him  happ}'. 
Therefore,"  he  added,  addressing  the  count,  "•  I  shall 
begin  by  curing  the  dangerous  condition  in  which  Ma- 
dame de  Seriz}'  now  lies." 

The  attorney-general  made  a  motion  of  surprise  and 
pleasure. 

"  Well,  then,  ask  him,"  continued  Corentin,  "  whether 
I  have  not  full  power  to  take  3'ou  from  the  shameful 
position  you  now  hold  and  attach  you  to  m}-  person." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Monsieur  de  Granville,  watch- 
ing the  convict  closeh*. 

"  Absolutel}'  true?  I  am  to  have  absolution  for  the 
past  and  the  promise  of  succeeding  you  if  I  show  my 
competency  ?  " 

"  Between  two  men  like  3'ou  and  me,  there  can  be  no 
misunderstanding,"  replied  Corentin,  with  a  grandeur 
b3'  which  most  persons  would  have  been  caught. 

"And  the  price  of  this  transaction  is,  no  doubt, 
the  return  of  three  bundles  of  letters?"  said  Jacques 
Collin. 

"  I  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  sa3'  that." 

"  M3'  dear  Monsieur  Corentin,"  said  Trompe-la-Mort, 
with  an  iron3'  worthy  of  that  which  made  Talma's  tri- 


384  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

umph  in  the  r6le  of  Nicomede.  "  I  thank  3'ou  ;  I  owe 
to  you  the  knowledge  of  what  I  am,  and  the  importance 
attached  to  depriving  me  of  those  weapons.  I  shall 
not  forget  it.  I  shall  be  ever,  and  always,  at  your 
service ;  and  instead  of  saying,  like  Robert  Macaire, 
'  Let  us  embrace  !  '  I  shall  embrace  you." 

He  seized  Corentin  by  the  middle  of  the  body  with 
such  rapidity  that  the  latter  could  not  defend  himself; 
he  pressed  him  like  a  doll  to  his  heart,  kissed  him  on 
both  cheeks,  lifted  him  like  a  feather,  opened  the  door 
of  the  office  and  deposited  him  outside,  somewhat 
bruised  by  the  rough  embrace. 

"  Adieu,  m}'  dear  fellow,"  he  whispered  in  his  ear. 
''  We  are  separated,  one  from  the  other,  b}"  the  length  of 
three  dead  bodies;  we  have  measured  swords,  and  both 
are  of  the  same  steel  and  the  same  dimensions.  Let 
us  respect  each  other ;  but  I  choose  to  be  3'our  equal, 
not  your  subordinate.  Armed  as  you  would  be,  I  think 
3'ou  too  dangerous  a  general  for  3^our  lieutenant.  A 
grave  lies  between  us.  Sorrow  to  3'ou  if  you  attempt 
to  come  upon  my  ground!  You  call  3^ourself  the  State 
just  as  lacqueys  take  the  names  of  their  masters ;  I 
shall  call  myself  Justice.  We  shall  often  meet ;  let  us 
treat  each  other  with  all  the  more  dignit3'  and  propri- 
ety because  we  are,  and  ever  shall  be  —  atrocious 
scoundrels,"  he  whispered.  "  I  set  you  an  example 
in  that  embrace." 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  385 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Corentin  looked  foolish, 
and  he  allowed  his  terrible  adversary  to  shake  him  bj' 
the  hand. 

"  If  this  is  how  it  will  be,"  he  said,  ''  I  think  it  is  to 
the  interests  of  both  to  remain  friends." 

"  We  shall  be  the  stronger  on  both  sides,  —  but  also 
more  dangerous,"  added  Jacques  Collin  in  a  low  voice. 
*'  You  will  permit  me  to  ask  you  to-morrow  for  certain 
instalments  on  this  bargain." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Corentin,  good-humoredly,  "  I  see  you 
take  your  affair  out  of  my  hands  and  give  it  to  the 
attorney-general.  You  will  be  the  cause  of  his  pro- 
motion. I  cannot  help  telling  you  that  you  do  right. 
Bibi-Lupin's  ways  are  well-known ;  besides,  he  has 
served  his  time.  If  you  take  his  place,  you  will  live  in 
the  only  condition  that  really  suits  you.  I  shall  be 
charmed  to  see  you  in  it,  —  on  my  word  of  honor." 

"  Au  revoir,  and  soon,"  replied  Jacques  ColUn. 


25 


386  The  Last  Incarnation  of  VaiUrin. 


XIT. 


JACQUES    COLLIN    ABDICATES   THE    ROYALTY    OF    DAB. 

On  re-entering  the  office,  Trompe-la-Mort  found  the 
attorney -general  sitting  at  his  desk  with  his  head  in 
his  hands. 

"How  can  you  prevent  Madame  deSerizy  from  be- 
coming insane  ?  "  asl^ed  Monsieur  de  Granville,  looking 
up. 

*'  I  can  do  it  in  five  minutes,"  replied  Jacques  Collin. 

''  And  you  are  willing  to  place  all  the  letters  of  those 
ladies  in  mj'  hands?" 

"  Have  you  read  the  three  I  gave  you?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  attorney-general. 

''Well,  we  are  alone;  forbid  all  entrance  and  let 
us  come  to  an  agreement,"  said  Jacques  Collin. 

"One  moment.  Before  all  else  the  law  must  take 
its  course ;  Monsieur  Camusot  has  orders  to  arrest 
3'our  aunt." 

"  He  cannot  find  her." 

"  The  police  are  to  search  a  place  in  the  Temple 
where  a  Mademoiselle  Paccard  keeps  an  establishment." 

"They   will    find   nothing  but   rags,  costumes,   dia- 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  387 

monds  and  unifonns.     Still,  it  is  high  time  to  put  an 
end  to  Monsieur  Camnsot's  zeal." 

Monsieur  de  Granville  rang  the  bell  and  told  the 
servant  to  deny  him  to  all  comers. 

"  Now,"  he  said  to  Jacques  Collin,  "  let  us  finish 
what  we  were  saying.  I  wisli  to  know  your  prescrip- 
tion for  curing  the  countess." 

''  Monsieur  le  comte,"  said  Jacques  Collin,  becoming 
grave.  "  I  was,  as  you  know,  condemned  to  five  years 
at  the  galleys  for  the  crime  of  forger}'.  I  love  m}- 
libertv.  That  love,  like  all  loves,  defeated  itself,  — 
for  lovers  quarrel  because  they  are  too  adoring.  B3' 
escaping,  and  then  being  retaken,  I  have,  in  point  of 
fact,  done  seven  years  at  the  galleys.  You  have  there- 
fore onh'  to  pardon  me  the  increase  of  penalt}'  which 
I  incurred  at  the  pre^  —  excuse  me^  I  mean  the  galleys. 
In  real  it  V,  I  have  suffered  in}'  punishment,  and  until 
the}'  find  me  guilt}'  of  some  other  crime,  —  which  I 
defy  the  law,  and  even  Corentin,  to  do,  —  I  ought  to  be 
restored  to  my  rights  as  a  French  citizen.  Excluded 
from  Paris  and  under  the  supervision  of  the  pohce,  is 
that  a  life,  I  ask  you?  Where  can  I  go?  What  can  I 
do?  You  know  my  capacities.  You  saw  Corentin, 
that  arsenal  of  tricks  and  treachery,  livid  with  fear 
before  me  and  doing  justice  to  my  talents.  That  man 
has  robbed  me  of  everything !  for  it  is  he,  he  only, 
by  what  means  and  in  whose  interests  I  do  not  know, 


388  The  Last  lucarnattoii  of  Vautrin. 

who  has  overthrown  the  edifice  of  Lucien's  fortune. 
Corentin  and  Caamsot  have  done  it  alL 

"Do  not  recriminate,"  said  Monsieur  de  Granville; 
"keep  to  your  point." 

"  Well,  my  point  is  this:  Last  night,  holding  in  ni}' 
hand  the  icy  hand  of  that  dead  ciiild,  I  vowed  to  m}'- 
self  to  renounce  the  senseless  struggle  I  have  carried 
on  for  twenty  years  against  society.  You  will  not 
think  me  capable  of  cant  after  what  I  have  told  you 
of  my  religious  opinions.  Well,  I  have  seen  the  world 
for  twent}^  years  on  its  seamy  side,  in  its  caves  and 
cellars,  and  I  recognize  that  there  is  in  the  march  of 
events  a  force,  which  you  call  Providence,  which  I  call 
fate,  and  my  comrades  call  luck.  All  evil  action  is  over- 
taken b}'  vengeance  of  some  kind,  no  matter  with  what 
rapidity  it  gets  away  from  it.  In  this  business  of  fight- 
ing the  world,  see  what  happens  !  You  hold  good  cards, 
quint  and  quatorze  in  hand  with  the  lead  ;  a  candle 
falls,  the  cards  are  burned,  or  the  player  falls  in  a  fit! 
There  3'ou  have  Lucien's  liistorv.  That  lad,  that  angel, 
never  committed  so  much  as  the  shadow  of  a  crime  ;  he 
let  himself  be  led,  lie  let  things  be  done  for  him.  He 
was  about  to  marr}'  Mademoiselle  de  Grandlieu,  to  be 
made  a  marquis  ;  he  had  a  fortune.  Well,  a  girl  poisons 
herself,  she  hides  a  sum  of  money,  and  the  edifice  of 
that  fine  fa.te,  so  laboriously  raised,  crumbles  in  a 
moment.     And   who   is    the    man   who    sfave    the    first 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  389 

thrust?  A  man  covered  with  hidden  infamy;  a  mon- 
ster who  has  committed  in  the  world  of  moneyed  in- 
terests such  crimes  tliat  every  penny  of  his  fortune  is 
soaked  with  the  tears  of  a  familj' ;  a  Nucingen,  who 
has  been  a  legalized  Jacques  Collin  in  the  world  of 
money.  You  Icnow  as  well  as  I  do  the  liquidations, 
the  tricks  of  that  man  for  which  he  deserves  hanging; 
but  society  accepts  him.  My  chains  will  forever  ham- 
per all  m}'  actions,  even  the  most  virtuous.  To  be  a 
shuttlecock  between  two  battledores,  one  called  the 
galleys  the  otiier  the  police,  is  a  life  whose  triumph 
is  toil  without  end  and  in  which  tranquillity  seems 
to  me  impossible.  Jacques  Collin,  monsieur,  is  being 
buried  at  this  moment  with  Lucien,  whom  they  are  now 
sprinkling  with  holy-water  before  he  goes  to  Pere- 
Lachaise.  But  I,  where  can  I  go,  not  to  live,  but  to 
die  !  In  the  present  state  of  things,  you,  I  mean  Law 
and  Justice,  have  not  been  willing  to  concern  yourself 
with  the  civil  and  social  condition  of  the  liberated  con- 
vict. When  the  law  is  satisfied,  society  is  not ;  it  con- 
tinues its  distrust  and  it  does  all  to  justify  that  dis- 
trust to  itself.  It  makes  the  liberated  convict  an 
impossible  being.  It  ought  to  return  to  him  all  his 
rights,  for  he  has  paid  the  penalty  of  his  crime  ;  but 
society  forbids  him  to  live  within  a  certain  zone.  It 
says  to  the  wretched  man :  '  Paris  and  its  suburbs 
to  such  a  distance,  the  onlj^  place  where  ^'ou  can  hide 


390  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

3'oiir  past,  yon  shall  not  inhabit.'  Moreover,  it  snb- 
jects  the  liberated  convict  to  police  snpervision,  and 
yon  think  it  possible  for  a  man  to  live  nnder  such  con- 
ditions? To  live,  one  must  work;  for  we  don't  bring 
fortunes  from  the  galleys.  But  you  have  arranged 
that  the  convict  shall  be  clearly  pointed  out,  recog- 
nized, stamped,  and  penned,  because  you  think  citizens 
may  trust  him  when  society  and  justice  will  not.  You 
condemn  him  to  hunger  or  to  crime.  He  can  get  no 
work ;  he  is  inevitablj*  driven  to  return  to  his  former 
business,  which  will  send  him  to  the  scaffold.  Thus, 
while  desiring  to  renounce  ni}'  struggle  against  the  law, 
1  saw  no  place  under  the  sun  above  us  for  me.  One 
onlv  could  I  fill,  — that  of  being  a  servant  of  the  Au- 
thority which  weighs  so  heavily  upon  us.  AVhen  this 
thought  came  to  me  the  power  in  my  possession  of 
which  I  have  spoken  to  you,  made  itself  clear  to  my 
mind.  Three  great  families  are  in  the  hollow  of  my 
hand.  Do  not  think  that  I  desire  to  blackmail  them. 
Blackmailing  is  the  most  cowardl}'  of  murders.  To  my 
e3xs  it  is  a  crime  of  deeper  wickedness  than  murder ; 
a  murderer  must  have  a  devilish  courage.  I  act  out 
my  opinions  ;  for  the  letters  which  are  my  securit}', 
which  enable  me  to  speak  as  I  do  to  you,  which  put 
me,  at  this  moment,  on  an  equal  footing  with  you, — 
I,  Crime,  you.  Justice, — are  at  3'our  disposition.  Let 
your  servant  now  go  and  ask  for  them  in  your  name ; 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  391 

he  will  receive  them.  I  seek  no  equivalent,  I  do  not 
sell  them.  Alas  !  Monsieur  le  comte,  when  I  put  them 
aside  to  keep  them  I  did  not  think  of  m3'self;  I 
thought  of  some  peril  which  Lucien  might  possibl}'  en- 
counter. If  3'ou  will  not  compl}'  with  m}'  request  I 
have  more  courage,  more  disgust  of  life  than  I  need 
to  blow  mj'  brains  out  and  rid  you  of  me.  I  could, 
with  a  passport,  go  to  America  and  live  in  the  wilds ; 
I  have  all  the  makings  of  a  savage  in  me.  Such  are 
the  thoughts  that  filled  my  mind  last  night.  Your  sec- 
retary' must  have  given  you,  I  think,  a  message  I 
charged  him  to  conve}'  to  you.  Seeing  the  precau- 
tions you  were  taking  to  save  Lucien's  memor}-  from 
infamy,  I  gave  you  all  m}'  life,  poor  gift!  I  no  longer 
cared  for  it ;  it  seemed  to  me  impossible  without  the 
light  that  lighted  it,  without  the  J03'  that  brightened 
it,  without  the  thought  that  was  its  meaning,  without 
the  splendor  of  that  3'oung  poet  who  was  its  sun,  and 
I  wished  then  to  give  3'OU  these  letters  — " 

Monsieur  de  Granville  bowed  his  head. 

"  When  I  was  taken  to  the  preau,  I  heard  that  m}* 
little  chain-companion  was  about  to  be  executed  for  the 
crime  at  Nanterre,"  continued  Jacques  Collin.  "  I 
learned  also  that  Bibi-Lupin  is  betraying  his  position  ; 
one  of  his  own  agents  was  engaged  in  the  Crottat  mur- 
der. Was  not  this,  as  3'ou  would  say,  providential?  I 
then  saw  the  possibilit3'  of  usefulness,  of  employing  the 


392  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

faculties  with  which  I  am  gifted,  the  mehiiichol}'  knowl- 
edge that  I  have  acquired,  in  the  interests  of  society, 
—  of  being  useful,  in  short,  instead  of  harmful ;  and 
I  have  dared  to  count  upon  your  comprehension  and 
3'our  kindness." 

The  air  of  good-will,  of  candor,  of  simplicit^^  in  the 
man  who  thus  confessed  himself  without  bitterness, 
without  that  philosoph}'  of  vice  which  had  hitherto 
made  him  so  terrible  to  listen  to,  would  have  caused 
all  those  who  saw  it  to  believe  in  a  transformation. 
He  was  no  longer  liis  past  self. 

"  I  believe  in  you  so  thoroughly,"  he  resumed  with 
the  humility  of  a  penitent,  "that  I  desire  to  put  m3^self 
wholly  at  your  disposal.  You  see  me  between  three 
roads,  —  suicide,  America,  and  the  rue  de  Jerusalem. 
Bibi-Lupin  is  rich;  he  has  served  his  time;  he  is  a 
double-faced  sentry  of  the  law ;  and  if  3'ou  will  let 
me  act  against  him,  je  le  pawnerais  marron  (I  will 
take  him  red-handed)  within  a  week.  If  you  will  give 
me  the  place  of  that  scoundrel,  you  will  render  a  great 
service  to  society.  I  shall  be  faithful.  I  have  all  the 
qualities  needed  for  the  work.  I  have  more  than  Bibi- 
Lupin,  because  I  am  educated,  I  have  followed  my 
classes  in  rhetoric ;  and  I  am  not  such  a  blockhead  as 
he,  for  I  have  manners,  —  when  I  choose  to  have  them. 
I  have  no  other  ambition  than  to  be  an  element  of 
order  and  repression  instead  of  being  corruption  itself. 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  39 


o 


I  will  never  again  recruit  a  human  being  for  the  grand 
army  of  vice.  Monsieur,  when  you  capture  the  enemy's 
general  on  the  open  field  3'ou  don't  shoot  him,  3'ou 
give  him  hack  his  sword,  with  a  town  for  a  prison. 
Well,  I  am  the  general  of  the  galWs,  and  I  surrender. 
It  is  not  the  Law  that  has  struck  me  down,  it  is  a 
death. — The  sphere  in  which  I  ask  to  act  and  live 
is  the  only  one  that  I  can  live  in.  In  it,  I  shall  de- 
velop the  power  that  I  feel  within  me.     Decide." 

He  ceased  speaking,  and  stood  in  a  submissive  and 
respectful  attitude. 

"You  have  put  those  letters  at  my  disposal?"  said 
the  attorney-general. 

"  You  can  send  for  them  ;  they  will  be  given  to  the 
person  whom  3'ou  send." 

"Where?" 

Jacques  Collin  read  the  heart  of  the  attornej'-gen- 
eral,  and  he  continued  on  the  same  lines :  — 

"You  have  promised  me  the  commutation  of  Calvi's 
death  sentence  to  one  of  twentj'  years  at  the  galleys. 
Oh  !  I  am  not  reminding  3'ou  of  that  as  a  bargain," 
he  said  quickl}-,  answering  a  gesture  of  the  attorne3'- 
general ;  "but  that  life  ought  to  be  saved  for  other 
reasons ;   the  young  man  is  innocent." 

"  How  can  I  obtain  tlie  letters?"  asked  the  attorne}'- 
general.  "It  is  my  dutv  to  know  if  you  are  the  man 
3'OU  say  3'Ou  are.     I  want  3'ou  without  conditions  —  " 


394  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

"Send  a  confidential  man  to  the  quai  aux  Fleurs; 
he  will  see  on  the  steps  of  a  hardware  shop,  at  the 
sign  of  the  '  Bouclier  d'Achille'  —  " 

"  The  house  of  the  '  Bouclier '  ?  " 

*'Yes,"  said  Jacques  Collin,  with  a  bitter  smile,  "my 
shield  and  buckler  are  there.  Your  man  will  find  an 
old  woman  on  those  steps,  dressed,  as  I  told  you  be- 
fore, like  a  marketwoman  of  some  means,  with  pen- 
dants in  her  ears.  He  must  ask  for  Madame  de  Saint- 
Est^ve,  —  be  careful  not  to  forget  the  cZe,  —  and  he 
must  sa}''  to  her :  '  I  come  from  the  attorne3'-general 
for  the  things  you  know  of.'  You  will  at  once  receive 
three  sealed  packets." 

"Are  all  the  letters  there?"  asked  Monsieur  de 
Granville. 

"Well,  well,  you  are  strong!  You  haven't  stolen 
your  oflfice,"  said  Jacques  Collin,  smiling.  "  I  sec  3'ou 
think  me  capable  of  tricking  you  with  blank  paper. 
You  don't  know  me!"  he  added,  "but  I  trust  }'ou 
as  a  son  his  father." 

'^  You  will  now  be  taken  back  to  the  Conciergerie," 
said  the  attornej^-general,  "  and  there  3'ou  will  await 
the  decision  on  your  fate."  He  rang  the  bell  and  said 
to  the  servant  who  answered  it,  ''Request  Monsieur 
Garner}'  to  come  here,  if  he  is  in  his  office." 

Besides  the  forty-eight  commissaries  of  police,  who 
watch   over  Paris  like  forty-eight  petty  providences, 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  395 

(hence  the  name  Quart-d'oeil,  quarter  of  an  e3'e,  given 
bj'  thieves'  argot,  because  there  are  four  to  each  ar- 
rondissement),  and  not  counting  the  detective  poHce, 
there  are  two  commissaries  attached  to  the  poHce 
proper,  and  two  to  the  courts  for  the  execution  of 
delicate  missions  and  occasionallv  to  do  the  work  of  the 
examining-judges.  These  places  require  men  of  mid- 
dle age,  proved  capacity,  great  morality,  and  absolute 
discretion.  It  is  one  of  the  miracles  performed  by 
Providence  for  the  benefit  of  Paris  that  natures  of 
this  kind  can  alwajs  be  obtained.  No  description  of 
the  Palais  would  be  complete  witiiout  mention  of  this 
preventive  magistracy,  if  we  may  so  call  it,  which  is  in 
truth  the  most  powerful  auxiliary  of  the  law ;  for  if 
law  has,  by  the  force  of  things,  lost  something  of  its 
ancient  pomp  and  grandeur,  we  must  admit  that  it  has 
gained  materialh'.  In  Paris,  above  all,  its  mechanism 
has  been  brought  to  perfection. 

Monsieur  de  Granville  having  sent  his  secretar}', 
Monsieur  de  Chargeboeuf,  to  Lucien's  funeral,  he  wished 
to  substitute  a  safe  man  to  send  upon  this  new  errand, 
and  Monsieur  Garnery  was  one  of  the  two  commissa- 
ries deles^ated  to  the  leg-al  service. 

"  Monsieur  le  comte,"  said  Jacques  Collin,  ''  I  have 
proved  to  3'ou  that  I  have  my  point  of  honor.  You 
gave  me  liberty  to  go  and  I  returned.  It  is  now  eleven 
o'clock ;  the  mortuarj'  mass  for  Lucien  must  be  nearly 


396  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

over,  and  the}^  will  take  him  to  the  cemeteiy.  Instead 
of  sending  ine  to  the  Conciergerie,  permit  me  to  accom- 
pany the  body  of  that  child  to  Pere-Lachaise.  I  will 
return  and  give  myself  up  a  prisoner." 

"  You  ma}'  go,"  said  Monsieur  de  Granville,  in  a 
voice  full  of  kindness. 

"  One  word  more.  The  money  of  that  girl,  Esther 
Gobseck,  was  not  stolen.  During  the  half-hour's  free- 
dom 3'ou  gave  me  this  morning,  I  questioned  her  ser- 
vants. I  am  as  sure  of  them  as  you  are  of  3'our  agents. 
You  will  undoubtedl}'  find  the  money  said  to  be  stolen 
in  Mademoiselle  Esther's  room,  when  the  seals  are  re- 
moved. Her  maid  tells  me  that  she  was  very  secretive 
and  distrustful,  and  I  make  no  doubt  that  the  bank-bills 
are  hidden  in  her  bed.  Let  it  be  well  examined,  open 
the  mattress  and  pillows,  and  you  will  find  the  money .'^ 

"  Are  you  sure  of  that? " 

"  I  am  sure  of  the  relative  honesty  of  my  scamps  ; 
the}^  never  venture  to  cheat  me.  I  have  the  power  of 
life  and  death  over  them.  I  judge  and  condemn  and 
execute  without  all  your  formalities.  You  shall  soon 
see  the  effects  of  my  power.  I  will  recover  for  3'ou 
the  sums  stolen  from  the  Crottats  ;  I  will  serre  mar- 
ron  (catch  red-handed)  one  of  Bibi-Lupin's  agents, 
his  right  arm  ;  and  I  will  give  you  the  secret  of  the 
the  crime  committed  at  Nanterre.  Is  n't  all  that  a 
pledge?     Now,  if  you  will  put  me  in  the  service  of  the 


Tlie  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  397 

law  and  the  police,  at  the  end  of  a  3-Gar  you  will  be 
glad  of  your  resolution.  I  will  be  honestly  what  I 
ought  to  be  ;  and  I  shall  know  how  to  succeed  in  all 
the  affairs  confided  to  me." 

"  I  cannot  promise  you  anything  but  my  own  good- 
will in  the  matter.  What  you  ask  does  not  depend 
on  me  alone.  To  the  king,  on  receiving  the  report  of 
the  Keeper  of  the  Seals,  belongs  the  sole  right  to  par- 
don, and  the  place  you  ask  for  is  in  the  gift  of  the  pre- 
fect of  police." 

"•  Monsieur  Garner}',"  announced  the  office  servant. 

On  a  sign  from  the  attorne^'-general,  the  commissaiy 
entered,  gave  Jacques  Collin  the  glance  of  a  connois- 
seur, and  could  hardl}'  repress  his  surprise  wlien  Mon- 
sieur de  Granville  said  to  the  ex-convict :  — 

"  You  may  go." 

"Will  you  permit  me,"  said  Jacques  Collin,  "to 
wait  here  till  Monsieur  Garnerj'  brings  3'ou  that  which 
is  ni}'  strength?  I  should  be  glad  to  carry  away  with 
me  a  proof  of  your  satisfaction." 

This  humilit}^  and  good  faith  touched  the  attorne}'- 
general.     "Go,"  he  said;   "1  am  sure  of  3'ou." 

Jacques  Collin  bowed  with  the  submission  of  an  in- 
ferior to  his  superior.  Ten  minutes  later  Monsieur  de 
Granville  had  in  his  possession  the  three  packages  of 
letters,  each  sealed  up  and  intact.  But  the  importance 
of  the  affair  and  the  sort  of  confession  made  to  him 


398  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

by  Jacques  Collin  had,  as  he  now  recollected,  caused 
liiiu  to  forget  the  latter's  promise  of  curing  Madame 
de  Seriz3\ 

Once  outside  those  walls,  Jacques  Collin  became 
conscious  of  an  incredible  sense  of  well-being.  He  felt 
himself  free  and  born  to  a  new  life.  He  walked  rapidly 
from  the  Palais  to  the  church  of  Saint-Germain  des 
Pres,  where  the  mass  was  over.  They  were  sprinkling 
the  coffin  with  holy-water,  and  he  arrived  in  time  to 
share  in  that  Christian  farewell  to  the  remains  of  the 
child  he  cherished  so  tenderly.  Then  he  got  into  one 
of  the  coaches  and  followed  the  body  to  the  cemetery. 

At  funeral  ceremonies  in  Paris,  unless  under  extra- 
ordinary circumstances,  like  the  death  of  some  cele- 
brated man,  the  crowd  which  attends  in  the  church 
does  not  follow  to  the  cemeter}'.  People  have  time 
for  the  church  service  ;  but  their  own  affairs  are  press- 
ing, and  they  return  to  them  as  soon  as  possible.  So, 
out  of  ten  mourning-coaches  on  this  occasion,  only  four 
were  occupied.  When  the  procession  reached  Pere- 
Lachaise,  not  more  than  a  dozen  persons  surrounded 
the  grave,  among  whom  was  Rastignac. 

"You  are  faithful  to  him,"  said  Jacques  Collin  to 
his  former  acquaintance. 

Rastignac  gave  a  start  of  surprise  on  seeing  Vautrin 
beside  him. 

*'  Be  calm,"  said  Madame  Vauquer's  former  boarder. 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin,  399 

"3'ou  have  a  slave  in  me,  if  onl}"  because  I  find  you 
here.  My  support  is  not  to  be  despised  ;  I  am,  or 
shall  be,  more  powerful  than  ever.  You  've  slipped 
3'our  cable,  you  have  been  clever,  but  you  may,  some 
time  or  other,  want  me,  and  I  will  always  serve  you." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  be?  " 

"  The  purveyor  of  the  galleys,  instead  of  their  lodger,'* 
replied  Jacques  Collin. 

Rastignac  made  a  motion  of  disgust. 

"  Suppose  you  are  robbed?  " 

Rastignac  walked  on  quickly  to  get  away  from 
Jacques  Collin. 

"  You  don't  know  under  what  circumstances  you 
ma}'  find  yourself,"  said  the  ex-convict. 

The}'  had  now  reached  the  grave  dug  for  Lucien 
beside  that  of  Esther. 

"  Two  beings  who  loved  each  other  and  were  happy," 
said  Jacques  Collin.  "  They  are  reunited.  It  is  a 
happiness  even  to  rot  together.     I  will  lie  there,  too." 

When  Lucien's  body  was  lowered  into  the  grave 
Jacques  Collin  fell  rigid  and  unconscious.  That  strong 
beino;  could  not  bear  the  slisfht  rattle  of  the  earth  which 
the  grave-diggers  threw  upon  the  coffin  in  order  to  de- 
mand their  fees. 

At  that  moment  two  members  of  the  detective  police 
force  came  up,  and  recognizing  the  ex-abbe,  they 
lifted  him  into  a  coach  and  took  him  away  with  them. 


400  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

*'  What  is  it  now?"  asked  Jacques  Collin,  when  he 
recovered  consciousness.  He  looked  about  the  coach 
and  recognized  the  police  agents,  one  of  whom  was 
Ruffard. 

"  Merel}'  that  the  attorne3'-general  is  asking  for  you," 
replied  Ruffard.  "  We  looked  everywhere,  and  onl}^ 
found  you  in  the  cemetery,  where  you  came  near 
pitching  head-foremost  into  the  grave  of  that  young 
man." 

Jacques  Collin  was  silent. 

"  Did  Bibi-Lupin  send  you  for  me?"  he  asked  pres- 
ently of  the  other  police-agent. 

"  No,  it  was  Monsieur  Garner3\" 

"  Did  he  say  anything  to  3'ou?  " 

The  two  agents  consulted  each  other  with  expressive 
pantomime. 

*'  Come,  tell  me,  how  did  he  give  the  order?" 

"  He  told  us  to  find  3'ou  immediately,"  replied  Ruf- 
fard, "  saying  that  you  were  either  in  the  church  of 
Saint-Germain  des  Pres,  or  at  the  cemeter3\" 

''  The  attorney-general  had  asked  for  me?  " 

*'  Perhaps  so." 

"Yes,  that's  it,"  said  Jacques  Collin,  "he  wants 
me  ; "  and  he  fell  back  into  a  silence  that  much  dis- 
quieted the  two  agents. 

About  half-past  two  o'clock,  Jacques  Collin  re-en- 
tered the  attorney-general's  office,  and  there  saw  a  new 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin,  401 

personage,  Comte  Octave  de  Bauvan,  one  of  the  judges 
of  the  court  of  appeals. 

"  You  forgot  that  you  promised  to  relieve  Madame 
de  Seriz\''s  mind  from  its  present  danger,"  said  the 
attorney-general,  when  he  saw  him. 

"Ask  those  two  men,  Monsieur  le  comte,  where  they 
found  me,"  said  Jacques  Collin,  signing  to  the  police- 
agents  to  enter  the  office. 

"Lying  unconscious,  Monsieur  le  comte,  beside  the 
grave  of  the  young  man   they  were  burying." 

"  That  will  do,"  said  the  attorney" -general,  motioning 
to  the  men  to  leave  the  office. 

"  Relieve  Madame  de  Serizy's  mind,"  said  Monsieur 
de  Bauvan  to  Jacques  Collin,  "and  you  shall  have 
what  you  ask." 

"  I  ask  nothing,"  replied  Jacques  Collin.  "  I  sur- 
rendered at  discretion,  and  Monsieur  le  comte  must 
have  received  —  " 

"  All  the  letters  !  "  said  Monsieur  de  Granville,  "  but 
you  said  that  you  could  relieve  Madame  de  Serizy's 
mind  and  save  her  reason.  Can  you?  or  was  that 
mere  bravado  ?  " 

"  I  hope  I  can,"  replied  Jacques    Collin,  modestl}'. 

"  Then  come  with  me  to  her  house,"  said  Comte 
Octave. 

"No,  monsieur,"  said  Jacques.  "I  am  still  a  con- 
vict, and  I  will  not  enter  a  carriage  with  3"ou.     If  I  de- 

26 


402  The  Last  Iiicarnatum  of  Vaittrin. 

sire  to  serve  the  police  and  the  law  I  shall  not  begin 
byinsulting.it.  Go  yourself  to  Madame  la  comtesse  ;  I 
shall  be  there  soon  after  3-011.  Saj-  to  her  that  Lueien's 
best  friend,  the  Abba  Carlos  Herrera  will  call  to  see 
her.  The  expectation  of  that  visit  will  necessarily 
make  an  impression  upon  her,  and  be  favorable  to  the 
result.  You  will  excuse  me  for  once  more  playing  the 
part  of  the  Spanish  priest ;  it  is  for  the  purpose  of 
doing  you  a  great  service." 

"  I  will  meet  you  there  at  four  o'clock,"  said  Mon- 
sieur de  Granville.  "I  must  now  go  to  the  king  with 
the  Keeper  of  the  Seals." 

Jacques  Collin  took  a  coach  and  drove  to  the  quai 
Malaquais.  There  he  went  up  to  the  little  room  on  the 
fourth  floor  where  he  himself  had  lodged,  which  was 
separate  from  Lucien's  apartment.  The  porter,  much 
astonished  at  seeing  him  again,  wanted  to  talk  about 
the  many  events  which  had  happened. 

"  I  know  all,"  said  the  abba.  ''  I  was  compromised, 
notwithstanding  the  sanctity  of  my  character.  But, 
thanks  to  the  intervention  of  the  Spanish  ambassador, 
I  am  now  at  libert}'." 

He  went  hurriedly  to  his  room,  where  he  took  from 
the  cover  of  a  breviary  a  certain  letter  which  Lucien 
had  written  to  Madame  de  Se'rizy  when  the  latter  had 
dismissed  him  in  disgrace  after  seeing  him  at  the  Opera- 
house  with  Esther. 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrm.  403 

In  his  aiixiet}'  and  despcair  at  the  position  in  which 
be  was  beginning  to  find  himself,  Lucien  had  not  sent 
the  letter,  believing  it  to  be  useless,  but  Jacques  Collin 
had  read  that  poetical  masterpiece,  and  as  whatever 
Lucien  wrote  was  sacred  to  him,  he  had  slipped  the 
letter  under  cover  of  his  breviar}'.  When  Monsieur 
de  Granville  spoke  to  him  of  Madame  de  Serizy's  state, 
his  profound  mind  rightly  believed  that  the  despair 
and  madness  of  the  countess  came  from  remorse  for 
the  quarrel  she  had  allowed  to  go  on  between  Lucien 
and  herself.  lie  knew  women  as  magistrates  know 
criminals  ;  he  could  guess,  like  them,  the  hidden  springs 
of  the  heart,  and  he  thought  at  once  that  Madame 
de  Serizy  probably  believed  that  Lucien's  death  was 
caused  by  lier  unkindness,  and  was  bitterl}'  remorseful 
for  it.  The  proof  given  by  Lucien's  poetic  letter  that 
in  spite  of  her  rigor  he  still  relied  upon  her  and  loved 
her,  would  probabl}'   restore   her  reason. 

The  entrance  of  this  dangerous  personage  to  the 
hotel  de  Serizy  was  a  shock  as  well  as  a  hope  to  the 
Comte  de  Seriz}'  and  to  his  friend  Comte  Octave  de 
Ban  van,  who  alone  were  present,  all  others  having  been 
sent  away.  Jacques  Collin  had  changed  his  clothes. 
He  now  wore  a  coat  and  trousers  of  black  cloth,  and 
his  demeanor,  looks,  and  gestures  were  entirely  in  keep- 
ing with  his  assumed  profession.  He  bowed  to  the  two 
statesmen  and  asked  if  he  might  enter  the  countess's 
room. 


404  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

"  She  expects  you,"  said  Monsieur  de  Bauvan. 

After  a  conference  of  half  an  hour,  Jacques  Collin 
opened  the  door  and  said  :  — 

"  Come  in,  messieurs  ;  there  is  nothing  more  to  fear." 

The  countess  held  the  letter  to  her  heart ;  she  was 
calm,  and  apparently  reconciled  with  herself.  The 
count  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"That's  what  they  are,  these  men  who  decide  our 
destiny  and  that  of  the  peoples ! "  tliought  Jacques 
Collin,  shruooinor  iiis  shoulders  as  the  door  closed  on 
the  two  friends  and  he  found  liimself  alone  in  the  salon. 
"  A  female  tear  turns  their  intellect  inside-out  like 
a  glove  !  They  lose  their  heads  at  a  glance  I  The  fan- 
cies of  a  woman  act  and  react  on  the  State  !  Oh  !  what 
strength  a  man  acquires  when  he  has  withdrawn  him- 
self, as  I  have,  from  those  childish  tyrannies,  those 
pretended  virtues  overthrown  bj'  passion,  those  candid 
wickednesses,  those  wiles  of  savages  !  Woman,  with 
the  orenius  of  an  executioner  her  talent  for  torturinjj; 
is,  and  ever  will  be  the  destruction  of  man.  Attorney- 
general,  minister  of  state,  judge  of  appeals,  —  here 
they  all  are,  blinded,  fooled,  twisting  and  turning  ever}'- 
thing  to  get  back  the  letters  of  a  duchess  and  a  girl, 
and  restore  the  reason  of  a  woman  who  is  madder 
when  she  has  her  senses  than  when  she  loses  them." 
He  smiled  derisively.  "And  they  believe  in  me,"  he 
continued.     "  They  obe}'  my  promptings  ;   I  shall  have 


The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin.  405 

that  place.     I  shall  still  reign  in  this  world  which  for 
twenty-five  years  has  been  at  my  feet." 

He  was  left  alone  a  whole  hour,  forgotten,  in  that 
salon.  Then  Monsieur  de  Granville  came  and  found 
him  standing  there,  sombre  and  lost  in  rever}",  as  a 
man  may  well  be  when  he  makes  an  18th  Brumaire 
in  his  life. 

The  attorne^'-general  w^ent  to  the  threshold  of  the 
countess's  room  and  remained  there  a  few  moments ; 
then  he  returned  to  Jacques   Collin  and  said :  — 

"  Do  you  persist  in  your  intentions?" 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

"  Very  good  ;  then  3'ou  will  take  Bibi-Lupin's  place  ; 
and  the  penalty  of  the  condemned  man  Calvi  is  re- 
mitted." 

"He  will  not  go  to  Rochefort?" 

"  Not  even  to  Toulon.  You  ma}'  employ  him  in 
your  service.  But  these  pardons  and  your  appointment 
will  depend  on  your  conduct  for  the  next  six  months, 
during  which  time  3'Ou  will  act  as  assistant  to  Bibi- 
Lupin. 

Within  a  week,  Bibi-Lupin's  assistant  had  enabled 
the  authorities  to  restore  four  hundred  thousand  francs 
to  the  Crottat  family*,  and  Ruffard  and  Godet  were 
denounced. 

The  money  of  Esther  Gobseck  was  found  in  her  bed, 
and  the  Comte  de  Serizy  paid  over  to  Jacques  Collin 


406  The  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin. 

the  three  hundred  thousand  francs  bequeathed  to  him 
by  Lucien  de  Rubempre. 

The  monument  ordered  b3'  Lucien  for  Esther  and 
himself  is  thought  to  be  one  of  the  finest  in  Pere- 
Lachaise ;  the  ground  below  it  is  reservec?  for  Jacques 
CoUin. 

After  exercising  his  functions  for  about  fifteen  years, 
Jacques  Collin  retired  in  1845. 


THE  END. 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Piiblicatiojis. 


25al3ac  in  aSngli^l). 


Memoirs  of  Two  Young  Married  Women. 

By  Honore  de  Balzac. 

Translated  by  Katharine  Prescott  Wormeley.     i2mo. 

Half  Russia.     Price,  $1.50. 


"There  are,"  says  Henry  James  in  one  of  his  essays,  "two  writers  in 
Balzac, — the  spontaneous  one  and  the  reflective  one,  the  former  of 
which  is  much  the  more  dehghtful,  while  the  latter  is  the  more  extraordi- 
nary." It  is  the  reflective  Balzac,  the  Balzac  with  a  theory,  whom  we 
get  in  tlie  •'  Deux  Jeunes  Mariees,"  now  translated  by  Miss  Wormeley 
under  the  title  of  "  Memoirs  of  Two  Young  Married  Women."  The 
theory  of  Balzac  is  that  the  marriage  of  convenience,  properly  regarded, 
is  far  preferable  to  the  marriage  simply  from  love,  and  he  undertakes  to 
prove  this  proposition  by  contrasting  the  careers  of  two  young  girls  who 
have  been  fellow-students  at  a  convent.  One  of  them,  the  ardent  and 
passionate  Louise  de  Chaulieu,  has  an  intrigue  with  a  Spanish  refugee, 
finally  marries  him,  kills  him,  as  she  herself  confesses^  by  her  perpetual 
jealousy  and  exaction,  mourns  his  loss  bitterly,  then  marries  a  golden- 
haired  youth,  lives  with  him  in  a  dream  of  ecstasy  for  a  year  or  so,  and 
this  time  kills  herself  through  jealousy  wrongfully  inspired.  As  for  her 
friend,  Renee  de  Maucombe,  she  dutifully  makes  a  marriage  to  please  her 
parents,  calculates  coolly  beforehand  how  many  children  she  will  have  and 
how  they  shall  ht  trained ;  insists,  however,  that  the  marriage  shall  be 
merely  a  civil  contract  till  she  and  her  husband  find  that  their  hearts  are 
indeed  one;  and  sees  all  her  brightest  visions  realized,  —  her  Louis  an 
ambitious  man  for  her  sake  and  her  children  truly  adorable  creatures. 
The  story,  which  is  told  in  the  form  of  letters,  fairly  scintillates  with 
brilliant  sayings,  and  is  filled  with  eloquent  discourses  concerning  the 
nature  of  love,  conjugal  and  otherwise.  Louise  and  Renee  are  both 
extremely  sophisticated  young  women,  even  in  their  teens  ;  and  those 
who  expect  to  find  in  their  letters  the  demure  innocence  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  type  will  be  somewhat  astonished.  The  translation,  under  the 
circumstances,  was  rather  a  daring  attempt,  but  it  has  been  most  felicit- 
ously done.  —  The  Beacon. 


Sold  by  all  booksellers.     Mailed,  postpaid.,  on  receipt  of 
price  by  the  Publishers., 

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Messrs.  Roberts  BrotJiers  Publications. 

25al5ac  in  €nglt^l^* 

THE  VILLAGE  RECTOR. 

By  Honore  de  Balzac. 

Translated  by  Katharine  Prescott  Wormeley.     121110. 
Half  Russia.     Price,  ^1.50. 


Once  more  that  wonderful  acquaintance  which  Balzac  had  with  all  callings 
appears  manifest  in  this  work.  Would  you  get  to  the  bottom  of  the  engineer's 
occupation  in  France?  Balzac  presents  it  in  the  whole  system,  with  its  aspects, 
disadvantages,  and  the  excellence  of  the  work  accomplished.  We  write  to-day 
of  irrigation  and  of  arboriculture  as  if  they  were  novelties  ;  yet  in  the  waste  lands 
of  Montagnac,  Balzac  found  these  topics ;  and  wliat  he  wrote  is  the  clearest 
exposition  of  the  subjects.  ' 

But,  above  all,  in  "  The  Village  Rector  "  is  found  the  most  potent  of  religious 
ideas,  —  the  one  that  God  grants  pardon  to  sinners.  Balzac  had  studied  and 
appreciated  the  intensely  human  side  of  Catholicism  and  its  adaptiveness  to  the 
wants  of  mankind.  It  is  religion,  with  Balzac,  "  that  opens  to  us  an  inexhaustible 
treasure  of  indulgence."     It  is  true  repentance  that  saves. 

The  drama  which  is  unrolled  in  "The  Village  Rector"  is  a  terrible  one,  and 
perhaps  repugnant  to  our  sensitive  minds.  The  selection  of  such  a  plot,  pitiless 
as  it  is,  Balzac  made  so  as  to  present  the  darkest  side  of  human  nature,  and  to 
show  how,  through  God's  pity,  a  soul  might  be  saved.  The  instrument  of  mercy 
is  the  Rector  Bonnet,  and  in  the  chapter  entitled  "  The  Rector  at  Work"  he 
shows  how  religion  "  extends  a  man's  life  beyond  the  world."  It  is  not  sufficient 
to  weep  and  moan.  "That  is  but  the  beginning;  the  end  is  action."  The 
rector  urges  the  woman  whose  sins  are  great  to  devote  what  remains  of  her  life 
to  work  for  the  benefit  of  her  brothers  and  sisters,  and  so  she  sets  about  reclaim- 
ing the  waste  lands  which  surround  her  chateau.  With  a  talent  of  a  superlative 
order,  which  gives  grace  to  Veronique,  she  is  like  the  Madonna  of  some  old  panel 
of  Van  Eyck's.  Doing  penance,  she  wears  close  to  her  tender  skin  a  haircloth 
vestment.  For  love  of  her,  a  man  has  committed  murder  and  died  and  kept  his 
secret.  In  her  youth,  Veronique's  face  had  been  pitted,  but  her  saintly  life  had 
obliterated  that  spotted  mantle  of  smallpox.  Tears  had  washed  out  every  blemish. 
If  through  true  repentance  a  soul  was  ever  saved,  it  was  Veronique's.  Tliis 
work,  too,  has  afforded  consolation  to  many  miserable  sinners,  and  showed  them 
the  way  to  grace. 

The  present  translation  is  to  be  cited  for  its  wonderful  accuracy  and  its  literary 
distinction.  We  can  hardly  think  of  a  more  difficult  task  than  the  Englishing  of 
Balzac,  and  a  general  reading  public  should  be  grateful  for  tlie  admirable  manner 
in  which  Miss  Wormeley  has  performed  her  task.  — New  York  Times. 


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of  price  by  the  Publishers .^ 

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Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 


BALZAC    IN    ENGLISH. 


THE  BROTHERHOOD  OF  CONSOLATION. 

(UENVERS  DE   L'HfSTOIRE   C0N7EMP0RAINE.) 

By    HONORE    DE   BALZAC. 

f.  Madame  de  la  Chanterie.      2.    The   Initiate.      Translated  by 
Katharine  Prescoit  Wornieley.     i2mo.     Half  Russia.     Price, 

^1.50. 

There  is  no  book  of  Balzac  which  is  informed  by  a  loftier  spirit  than 
"  L'Envers  de  I'Histoire  Contemporaine,"  which  has  just  been  added  by  Miss 
Wormeley  to  her  admirable  series  of  translations  under  the  title,  "  The  Brother- 
hood of  Consolation."  The  title  which  is  given  to  the  translation  is,  to  our 
thinking,  a  happier  one  than  that  which  the  work  bears  in  the  original,  since,  after 
all,  the  political  and  historical  portions  of  the  book  are  only  the  background  of  the 
other  and  more  absorbing  theme,  —  the  development  of  the  brotherhood  over 
which  Madame  de  la  Chanterie  presided.  It  is  true  that  there  is  about  it  all 
something  theatrical,  something  which  shows  the  French  taste  for  making  godli- 
ness itself  histrionically  effective,  that  quality  of  mind  which  would  lead  a  Parisian 
to  criticise  the  coming  of  the  judgment  angels  if  their  entrance  were  not  happily 
arranged  and  properly  executed  ;  but  in  spite  of  this  there  is  an  elevation  such  as 
it  is  rare  to  meet  with  in  literature,  and  especially  in  the  literature  of  Balzac's  age 
and  land.  The  story  is  admirably  told,  and  the  figure  of  the  Baron  Bourlac  is 
really  noble  in  its  martyrdom  of  self-denial  and  heroic  patience.  The  picture  of 
the  Jewish  doctor  is  a  most  characteristic  piece  of  work,  and  shows  Balzac's 
intimate  touch  in  every  line.  Balzac  was  always  attracted  by  the  mystical  side 
of  the  physical  nature  ;  and  it  might  almost  be  said  that  everything  that  savored 
of  mystery,  even  though  it  ran  obviously  into  quackery,  had  a  strong  attraction 
for  him.  He  pictures  Halpersohn  with  a  few  strokes,  but  his  picture  of  him  has 
a  striking  vitality  and  reality.  The  volume  is  a  valuable  and  attractive  addition  to 
the  series  to  which  it  belongs  ;  and  the  series  comes  as  near  to  fulfilling  the  ideal 
of  what  translations  should  be  as  is  often  granted  to  earthly  things.  —  Boston 
Courier. 

The  book,  which  is  one  of  rare  charm,  is  one  of  the  most  refined,  while  at  the 
same  time  tragic,  of  all  his  works.  — Public  Opinion. 

His  present  work  is  a  fiction  beautiful  in  its  conception,  just  one  of  those 
practical  ideals  which  Balzac  nourished  and  believed  in.  There  never  was  greater 
homage  than  he  pays  to  the  book  of  books,  "  The  Imitation  of  Jesus  Christ." 
Miss  Wormeley  has  here  accomplished  her  work  just  as  cleverly  as  in  her  other 
volumes  of  Balzac. — N.  Y.  Times. 


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Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 


BALZAC    IN    ENGLISH. 


A  Great  Mm  of  the  Provinces  in  Paris. 

By   HONORE    DE    BALZAC. 

Being  the  second  part  of  "  Lost  Illusions."     Translated  by  Kath- 
arine Prescott  Wormeley.     i2mo.     Half  Russia.     Price,  $1.50. 

We  are  beginning  to  look  forward  to  the  new  translations  of  Balzac  by  Katha- 
rine Wormeley  almost  as  eagerly  as  to  the  new  works  of  the  best  contemporary 
writers.  But,  unlike  the  writings  of  most  novelists,  Balzac's  novels  cannot  be 
judged  separately.  They  belong  together,  and  it  is  impossible  to  understand  the 
breadth  and  depth  of  the  great  writer's  insight  into  human  life  by  reading  any 
one  volume  of  this  remarkable  series.  For  instance,  we  rise  from  the  reading  of 
this  last  volume  feeling  as  if  there  was  nothing  high  or  noble  or  pure  in  life.  But 
what  would  be  more  untrue  than  to  fancy  that  Balzac  was  unable  to  appreciate 
the  true  and  the  good  and  the  beautiful  !  Compare  *'  The  Lily  of  the  Valley  " 
or  "  Seraphita  "  or  "Louis  Lambert"  with  "The  Duchesse  of  Langeais"  and 
"  Cousin  Bette,"  and  then  perhaps  the  reader  will  be  able  to  criticise  Balzac  with 
some  sort  of  justice.  —  Boston  Traiiscript. 

Balzac  paints  the  terrible  verities  of  life  with  an  inexorable  hand.  The  siren 
charms,  the  music  and  lights,  the  feast  and  the  dance,  are  presented  in  voluptu- 
ous colors —  but  read  to  the  end  of  the  book!  There  are  depicted  witli  equal 
truthfulness  the  deplorable  consequences  of  weakness  and  crime.  Some  have 
read  Balzac's  "Cousin  Bette"  and  have  pronounced  him  immoral;  but  when 
the  last  cliapter  of  any  of  his  novels  is  read,  the  purpose  of  the  whole  is  clear,  and 
immorality  cannot  be  alleged.  Balzac  presents  life.  His  novels  are  as  truthful 
as  they  are  terrible.  —  Springfield  Union. 

Admirers  of  Balzac  will  doubtless  enjoy  the  mingled  sarcasm  and  keen  analy- 
sis of  human  nature  displayed  in  the  present  volume,  brought  out  with  even  more 
than  the  usual  amount  of  the  skill  and  energy  characteristic  of  the  author.  — 
Pittsburgh  Post. 

The  art  of  Balzac,  the  wonderful  power  of  his  contrast,  the  depth  of  his 
knowledge  of  life  and  men  and  things,  this  tremendous  story  illustrates.  How 
admirably  the  rise  of  the  poet  is  traced  ;  the  crescendo  is  perfect  in  gradation,  yet 
as  inexorable  as  fate!  As  for  the  fall,  the  effect  is  more  depressing  than  a 
personal  catastrophe.  This  is  a  book  to  read  over  and  over,  an  epic  of  life  in 
prose,  more  tremendous  than  the  blank  verse  of  "  Paradise  Lost "  or  the 
"Divine  Comedy."  Miss  Wormeley  and  the  publishers  deserve  not  congratula- 
tions alone,  but  thanks  for  adding  this  book  and  its  predecessor,  "  Lost  Illusions," 
to  the  literature  of  English-  —  San  Francisco  Wave. 


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Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 


BALZAC   IN  ENGLISH. 


Lost  IllisiODS :  Tlie  Two  Poets,  and  Eve  wi  Davifl. 

By    HONORE   DE   BALZAC. 

Being  the  twenty-third  volume  of  Miss  Wormeley's  translation  of 
Balzac's  novels.     i2mo.     Half  Russia.     Price,  ^1.50. 

For  her  latest  translation  of  the  Balzac  fiction  cycle.  Miss  Wormeley  gives  us 
the  first  and  third  parts  of  "Illusion  Perdue,"  under  the  caption  of  "Lost 
Illusions,"  namely,  "The  Two  Poets  "  and  "  Eve  and  David."  This  arrange- 
ment is  no  doubt  a  good  one,  for  the  readers  are  thus  enabled  to  follow  the  consecu- 
tive fortunes  of  the  Angouleme  folk,  while  the  adventures  of  Eve's  poet-brother, 
Lucien,  which  occur  in  Pans  and  make  a  tale  by  themselves,  are  thus  left  for  a 
separate  publication.  The  novel,  as  we  have  it,  then,  belongs  to  the  category  of 
those  scenes  from  provincial  life  which  Balzac  found  so  stimulating  to  his  genius. 
This  story,  certainly,  in  some  respects  takes  high  rank  among  them.  The 
character-drawing  is  fine:  Lucien,  the  ambitious,  handsome,  weak-willed,  selfish, 
and  easily-sinning  young  bourgeois,  is  contrasted  with  David,  —  a  touching  picture 
of  the  struggling  inventor,  born  of  the  people  and  sublimely  one-purposed  and 
pure  in  his  life.  Eve,  the  type  of  a  faithful  large-brained  and  larger-hearted  wife, 
who  supports  her  husband  through  all  his  hardships  with  unfaltering  courage  and 
kindness,  is  another  noble  creation.  David  inherits  a  poorish  printing  business 
from  his  skin-flint  of  a  father,  neglects  it  while  devoting  all  his  time  and  energy  to 
his  discovery  of  an  improved  method  of  making  paper ;  and  through  the  evil 
machinations  of  the  rival  printing  firm  of  the  Cointets,  as  well  as  the  debts  foisted 
on  him  by  Lucien  in  Paris,  he  is  brought  into  money  difficulties  and  even  into 
prison.  But  his  invention,  although  sold  at  a  sacrifice  to  the  cunning  Cointets, 
gets  him  out  of  the  hole  at  last,  and  he  and  his  good  wife  retire  on  a  comfortable 
competency,  which  is  augmented  at  the  death  of  his  father  into  a  good-sized 
fortune.  The  seamy  side  of  law  in  the  provinces  is  shown  up  in  Balzac's  keen, 
inimitable  way  in  the  description  of  the  winding  of  the  coils  around  the  unsuspect- 
ing David  and  the  depiction  of  such  men  as  the  brothers  Cointets  and  the  shrewd 
little  petifogging  rascal.  Petit  Claud.  The  pictures  of  Angouleme  aristocratic 
circles,  too,  with  Lucien  as  high  priest,  are  vivacious,  and  show  the  novelist's 
wonderful  observation  in  all  ranks  of  life.  The  bit  of  wild  romance  by  which 
Lucien  becomes  the  secretary  of  a  .Spanish  grandee  lends  a  fairy-tale  flavor  to  tne 
main  episodes.  Balzac,  in  whom  is  united  the  most  lynx-eyed  realism  and  the 
most  extravagant  romanticism,  is  ever  and  always  one  of  the  great  masters  in 
fiction  of  our  century. 


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Balzac  in  Eno-lish. 


PIERRETTE 


AND 


Thk   Vicar    ok    Tours. 

BY    HONORE    DE   BALZAC. 
Translated  by  Katharine  Prescott  Wormeley. 


In  Pierrette,  which  Miss  Wormeley  has  added  to  her  series  of  felicitoua 
translations  from  the  French  master-fictionists,  Balzac  has  made  within 
brief  compass  a  marvellously  sympathetic  study  of  the  martyrdom  ot  a 
young  girl.  Pierrette,  a  flower  of  Brittany,  beautiful,  pale,  and  fair  and 
sweet,  is  taken  as  an  undesired  charge  by  sordid-minded  cousins  in  Pro- 
vins,  and  like  an  exotic  transplanted  into  a  harsh  and  sour  so'l  she  withers 
and  fades  under  the  cruel  conditions  of  her  new  environment.  Inciden- 
tally Balzac  depicts  in  vivid  colors  the  struggles  of  two  shoe-keepers  —  a 
brother  and  sister,  who  have  amassed  a  little  fortune  in  Paris  —  to  gain  a 
foothold  among  the  bourgeoisie  of  their  native  town.  These  two  become 
the  prey  of  conspirators  for  political  advancement,  and  the  rivalries  thus 
engendered  shake  the  small  provincial  society  to  its  centre.  Put  the 
charm  of  the  tale  is  in  the  portrayal  of  the  character  of  Pierrette,  who 
understands  only  how  to  love,  and  who  cannot  live  in  an  atmosphere  of 
suspicion  and  ill-treatment.  The  story  is  of  course  sad,  but  its  fidelity  to 
life  and  the  pathos  of  it  are  elements  of  unfailing  interest.  Balzac  brings 
a  score  or  more  of  people  upon  the  stage,  shows  each  one  as  he  or  she 
really  is  both  in  outward  appearance  and  inward  nature,  and  then  allows 
motives  and  circumstances  to  work  out  an  inevitable  result.  To  watch 
this  process  is  like  being  present  at  some  wonderful  chemical  experiment 
where  the  ingredients  are  mixed  with  a  deft  and  careful  hand,  and  combine 
to  produce  effects  of  astonishing  significance.  The  social  genesis  of  the 
old  maid  in  her  most  abhorrent  form  occupies  much  of  Balzac's  attention 
in  Pierrette,  and  this  theme  also  has  a  place  in  the  story  of  The  Vicar  oj 
Tours,  bound  up  in  this  same  volume.  The  vicar  is  a  simple-minded 
priest  who  is  happy  enough  till  he  takes  up  his  quarters  with  an  old  maid 
landlady,  who  pesters  and  annoys  him  in  many  ways,  and  finally  sends  him 
forth  despoiled  of  his  worldly  goods  and  a  laughing-stock  for  the  country- 
side. There  is  a  grea^  deal  of  humor  in  the  tale,  but  one  must  confess 
that  the  humor  is  of  a  rather  heavy  sort,  it  being  weighed  down  by  a  domi- 
nant satirical  purpose.  —  The  Beacon. 

One  handsome  i2mo  volume,  uniform  with  "  Pere  Goriot," 
*•  The  Duchesse  de  Langeais,"  "  Cesar  Birotteau,"  "  Eugenie 
Grandet,"  *'  Cousin  Pons."  "  The  Country  Doctor,"  "  The  Twa 
Brothers,"  and  "  The  Alkahest."  Half  morocco,  Fr£:nch  style 
Price,  $1.50. 


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Messrs.  Roberts  BrotJiers'  Publications, 


A  MEMOIR  OF  HONORE  DE  BALZAC. 


Compiled  and  written  by  Katharine  Prescott  Wormeley,  translator 
of  Balzac's  works.  VVitli  portrait  of  Balzac,  taken  one  hour  after 
death,  by  Eugene  Giraud,  and  a  Sketch  of  the  Prison  of  the  College 
de  Vendome.  One  volume,  i2mo.  Half  Russia,  uniform  with  our 
edition  of  Balzac's  works.     Price,  ^1.50. 

A  complete  life  of  Balzac  can  probably  never  be  written.  The  sole  object  ot 
the  present  volume  is  to  present  Balzac  to  American  readers.  Tliis  memoir  is 
meant  to  be  a  presentation  of  the  man,  —  and  not  of  his  work,  except  as  it  was  a 
part  of  liimself,  —  derived  from  aiithentic  sources  of  inforn^ation,  and  presented  in 
their  own  words,  with  sucli  simple  elucidations  as  a  close  intercomse  with  Balzac's 
mind,  necessitated  by  conscientious  translation,  naturally  gives.  The  portrait 
in  this  volume  was  considered  by  Madame  de  Balzac  the  best  likeness  of  her 
husband. 

Miss  Wormeley's  discussion  of  the  subject  is  of  value  in  many  ways,  and  it  has 
long  been  needed  as  a  help  to  comprehension  of  his  life  and  character.  Person- 
ally, he  lived  up  to  his  theory.  His  life  was  in  fact  austere.  Any  detailed  ac- 
count of  the  conditions  under  whicii  lie  worked,  such  as  are  given  in  this  volume, 
will  show  that  this  must  have  been  the  case ;  and  the  fact  strongly  reinforces  the 
doctrine.  Miss  Wormeley,  in  arranging  her  account  of  his  career,  has,  almost 
of  necessity,  made  free  use  of  the  letters  and  memoir  published  by  Balzac's  sister, 
Madame  Surville.  She  has  also,  whenever  it  would  serve  the  purpose  of  illus- 
tration better,  quoted  from  the  sketches  of  him  by  his  contemporaries,  wisely 
rejecting  the  trivialities  and  frivolities  by  the  exaggeration  of  which  many  of  his 
first  chroniclers  seemed  bent  upon  giving  the  great  author  a  kind  of  opera-bouffe 
aspect.  To  judge  from  some  of  these  accounts,  he  was  flighty,  irresponsible, 
possibly  a  little  mad,  prone  to  lose  touch  of  actualities  by  the  dominance  of  his 
imagination,  fond  of  wild  and  impracticable  schemes,  and  altogether  an  eccentric 
and  unstable  person.  But  it  is  not  difficult  to  prove  that  Balzac  was  quite  a 
different  character ;  that  he  possessed  a  marvellous  pov\er  of  intellectual  organi- 
zation ;  that  he  was  the  most  methodical  and  indefatigable  of  v\  orkers ;  that  he 
was  a  man  of  a  most  delicate  sense  of  honor;  that  his  life  was  not  simply  de- 
voted to  literary  ambition,  but  was  a  martyrdom  to  obligations  which  were  his 
misfortune,  but  not  his  fault. 

AH  this  Miss  Wormley  has  well  set  forth  ;  and  in  doing  so  she  has  certainly 
relieved  Balzac  of  much  unmerited  odium,  and  has  enabled  those  who  have  not 
made  a  study  of  his  character  and  work  to  understand  how  high  the  place  is  in 
any  estimate  of  the  helpers  of  modern  progress  and  enlightenment  to  which  his 
genius  and  the  loftiness  of  his  aims  entitle  him.  This  memoir  is  a  very  modest 
biography,  though  a  very  good  one.  The  author  has  effaced  herself  as  much  as 
possible,  and  has  relied  upon  "documents"  whenever  they  were  trustworthy  — 
N.  V.  Tribufie. 


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Balzac  in  English, 


Albert   Savarus,    with    Paz   (La    Fausse 
Maitresse)  and   Madame  Firmiani.    By 

Honors  de  Balzac.     Translated   by  Katharine  Prescott 
Wormeley. 

There  is  much  in  this,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  of  his  books, 
which  is  synonymous  with  Balzac's  own  life.  It  is  the  story  of  a  man's 
first  love  for  woman,  his  inspirer,  the  source  from  whom  he  derives 
his  power  of  action.  It  also  contains  many  details  on  his  habits  of 
life  and  work. 

The  three  short  stories  in  this  volume, —  '  Albert  Savarus,'  'Paz'  and  'Madame 
Firmiani' — are  chips  from  tliat  astounding  workshop  which  never  ceased  its  Hephoes- 
tian  labors  and  products  until  Balzac  was  no  more  Short  stories  of  this  character 
flew  from  his  glowing  forge  like  sparks  from  an  anvil,  the  playthings  of  an  idle  hour, 
the  interludes  of  a  more  vivid  drama.  Three  of  them  gathered  here  illustrate  as 
usual  Parisian  and  provincial  life,  two  in  a  very  noble  fashion,  Balzacian  to  the  core. 
The  third — '  Albert  Savarus' —  has  many  elements  of  tragedy  and  grandeur  in  it, 
spoiled  only  by  an  abruptness  in  the  conclusion  and  an  accumulation  of  unnecessary 
horrors  that  chill  the  reader.     It  is  a  block  of  tragic  marble  hewn,  not  to  a  finish,  but 

to  a  fine  prophetic  suggestion  of  what  is  to  follow  if !     The  if  never  emerges 

from  conditionality  to  fulfilment.  The  beautiful  lines  and  sinuous  curves  of  the 
nascent  statue  are  there,  not  fully  born  of  the  encasing  stone  ;  what  sculptors  call  the 
'tenons'  show  in  all  their  visibility  —  the  supports  and  scaffoldings  reveal  their 
presence  ;  the  forefront  is  finished  as  in  a  Greek  metope  or  Olympian  tympanum, 
where  broken  Lapiths  and  Centaurs  disport  themselves;  but  the  background  is  rude 
and  primitive 

In  '  Madame  Firmiani '  a  few  brilliant  pages  suffice  to  a  perfect  picture, —  one  of 
the  few  spotless  pictures  of  this  superb  yet  sinning  magician  so  rich  in  pictures.  It  is 
French  nature  that  Balzac  depicts,  warm  with  all  the  physical  impulses,  undisguised 
in  its  assaults  on  the  soul,  ingeniously  sensual,  odiously  loose  in  its  views  of  marriage 
and  the  marriage  relation,  but  splendidly  picturesque.  In  this  brief  romance  noble 
words  are  wedded  to  noble  music.  In  'Paz'  an  almost  equal  nobiliiy  of  thought — ■ 
the  nobility  of  self-renunciation — is  attained.  Balzac  endows  his  men  and  women 
with  iiappy  millions  and  unhappy  natures:  the  red  ruby  —  the  broken  heart  —  blazes 
in  a  setting  of  gold.  '  Paz,'  the  sublime  Pole  who  loves  the  wife  of  his  best  friend, 
a  Slav  Crcesus,  is  no  exception  to  the  rule.  The  richest  rhetoric,  the  sunniest  colors, 
fail  to  counteract  the  Acherontian  gloom  of  these  lives  and  sorrows  snatched  from  the 
cauldron  of  urban  and  rural  France, — a  cauldron  that  burns  hotter  than  any  other 
with  its  strange  Roman  and  Celtic  ardors.  Balzac  was  perpetually  dipping  into  it  and 
drawing  from  it  the  wonderful  and  extraordinary  incidents  of  his  novels,  incidents  often 
monstrous  in  their  untruth  if  looked  at  from  any  other  than  a  French  point  of  view. 
Thus,  the  devilish  ingenuity  of  the  jealous  woman  in  '  Albert  Savarus'  would  seem 
unnatural  anywhere  else  than  in  the  sombre  French  provinces  of  1836, —  a  toadstool 
sprung  up  in  the  rank  moonlight  of  the  religious  conventual  system  of  education  for 
women  ;  but  there,  and  then,  and  as  one  result  of  this  system  of  repression,  it 
seems  perfectly  natural.  And  so  does  the  beautiful  self-abnegation  of  Albert  himself, 
that  high-strung  soul  that  could  have  been  born  only  in  nervous  and  passionate 
France. 

As  usual.  Miss  Wormeley's  charming  translation  floats  the  reader  over  these 
pages  in  the  swiftest  and  airiest  manner.  —  The  Critic. 

One  handsome  i2mo  volume,  uniform  with  "  Pere  Goriot,"  "  The 
Duchesse  de  Langeais,"  "  Cesar  Birotteau,"  "  Eugenie  Grandet,'* 
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"The  Alkahest."     Half  morocco,  French  style.     Price,  ^1.50. 


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BALZAC  IN  ENGLISH. 


An  Historical  Mystery, 

Translated  by  KATHARINE  PRESCOTT  WORMELEY. 
12mo.    Half  Russia.    TJnifonn  with  Balzac's  Works     Price,  $1.50. 


An  Historical  Mysttry'is  the  title  given  to"  Una  Tenebreuse  Affaire,"  which 
has  just  appeared  m  tlie  seiijs  of  translations  of  Honore  de  Balzac's  novels,  by 
Katharine  Prescott  Wormeley  'I'his  exciting  romance  is  full  of  stirring  interest, 
and  is  distinguished  l)y  that  minute  analysis  of  character  in  which  its  eminent 
author  excelled.  'I'iie  characters  stand  boldly  out  from  the  surrounding  incidents, 
and  with  a  fidelity  as  wonderful  as  U  is  truthful.  Plot  and  counter))lot  follow 
each  other  with  marvellous  rapidity;  and  around  the  exciting  days  when  Na- 
poleon was  First  Consul,  and  afterward  when  he  was  Emperor,  a  mystery  is 
woven  in  which  some  royalists  are  concerned  that  is  concealed  with  masterly 
ingenuity  until  the  novelist  sees  fit  to  take  his  reader  into  his  confidence.  The 
heroine,  Laurence,  is  a  remarkably  strong  character;  and  the  love-story  in  which 
she  figures  is  refreshing  in  its  departure  from  the  beaten  patli  of  the  ordinary 
writer  of  fiction  IVlicbu,  her  devoted  servant,  has  also  a  marked  individuality, 
which  leaves  a  lasting  impression.  Napoleon,  Talleyrand,  Fouche,  and  other 
historical  personages,  appear  in  the  tale  in  a  manner  that  is  at  once  natural  and 
impressive.  As  an  addition  to  a  remarkable  series,  the  book  is  one  that  no 
admirer  of  Balzac  can  afford  to  neglect.  Miss  Wormeley's  translation  reproduces 
the  peculiarities  of  the  author's  style  with  the  faithfulness  for  which  she  has 
hitherto  been  celebrated. — Sattdrday  Evening  Gazette. 

It  makes  very  interesting  reading  at  this  distance  of  time,  however;  and  Balzac 
has  given  to  the  legendary  account  much  of  the  solidity  of  history  by  his  adroit 
manipulation.  For  the  main  story  it  must  be  said  that  the  action  is  swifter  and 
more  varied  than  in  many  of  the  author's  books,  and  that  there  are  not  wanting 
many  of  those  cameo-like  portraits  necessary  to  warn  the  reader  against  slovenly 
perusal  of  this  carefully  written  story;  for  the  complications  are  such,  and  the  re- 
lations between  the  several  plots  involved  so  intricate,  that  the  thread  might 
easily  be  lost  and  much  of  the  interest  be  thus  destroyed  The  usual  Balzac 
compactness  is  of  course  present  throughout,  to  give  body  and  significance  to  the 
work,  and  the  stage  is  crowded  with  impressive  figures.  It  would  be  impossible 
to  find  a  book  which  gives  a  better  or  more  faithful  illustration  of  one  of  the 
strangest  periods  in  French  history,  in  short ;  and  its  attraction  as  a  story  is  at 
least  equalled  by  its  value  as  a  true  picture  of  the  lime  it  is  concerned  with.  The 
translation  is  as  spirited  and  close  as  Miss  Wormeley  has  taught  us  to  expect  in 
this  admirable  series.  —New  York  Tribune. 

One  of  the  most  intensely  interesting  novels  that  Balzac  ever  wrote  \s  An 
Historical  Mystery,  whose  translation  has  just  been  added  to  the  preceding 
novels  that  compose  the  "Comedie  Humaine  "  so  admirably  translated  by  Miss 
Katharine  Prescott  Worn>eley.  The  story  opens  in  the  autumn  of  1803,  in  the 
time  of  the  Empire,  and  the  motive  is  in  deep-laid  political  plots,  which  are  re- 
vealed with  the  subtle  and  ingenious  skill  that  marks  the  art  of  Balzac.  .  .  The 
story  IS  a  deep-laid  political  conspiracy  of  the  secret  service  of  the  ministry  of 
the  police.  Talleyrand,  M'lle  de  Cinq-Cvgne,  the  Princess  de  Cadigan,  Louis 
XVIII  ,  as  well  as  Napoleon,  figure  as  characters  of  this  thrilling  historic  ro- 
mance. An  absorbing  love-story  is  also  told,  in  which  State  intrigue  plays  an 
important  part.  The  character-drawing  is  faithful  to  history,  and  the  story  illu- 
minates French  life  in  the  early  years  of  the  century  as  if  a  calcium  light  were 
thrown  on  the  scene. 

It  IS  a  romance  of  remarkable  power  and  one  of  the  most  deeply  fascinating 
of  all  the  novels  of  the  'Comedie  Humaine." 


Sold  by  all  booksellers.     Mailed.,  post-paid.,  on  receipt  of 
price  by  the  Publishers, 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS,   Boston. 


BALZAC    IN   ENGLISH. 


Pame  and   Sorrow^, 

TRANSLATED    BY   KATHARINE   PRESCOTT   WORMELEY. 

l2mo.  Half  Russia.  Uniform  with  our  edition  of  Balzac*s 
Works.  Price,  $1.50.  In  addition  to  this  remarkable  story, 
the  volume  contains  the  following,  namely:  "Colonel  Chabert," 
"  The  Atheist's  Mass,"  "  La  Grande  Breteche,"  "  The  Purse,"  and 
"  La  Grenadiere." 

The  force  and  passion  of  the  stories  of  P.alEac  are  unapproachable.  He  had 
the  art  of  putting  into  half  a  dozen  pages  all  the  fire  and  stress  wliich  many 
writers,  who  are  still  great,  cannot  compass  in  a  volume.  The  present  volume  is 
an  admirable  collection,  and  presents  well  his  power  of  handling  the  short  story. 
That  the  translation  is  excellent  need  hardly  be  said  —  Boston  Courier. 

The  six  stories,  admirably  translated  by  Miss  Wormeley,  afford  good  examples 
of  Balzac's  work  in  what  not  a  few  critics  have  thought  his  chief  specialty.  It  is 
certain  that  no  writer  of  many  novels  wrote  so  many  short  stories  as  he  ;  and  it  is 
equally  as  certain  that  his  short  stories  are,  almost  without  an  exception,  models 
of  what  such  compositions  ought  to  be.  .  .  No  modern  author,  however,  of  any 
school  whatever,  has  succeeded  in  producing  short  stories  half  so  good  as  Balzac's 
best.  Balzac  did  not,  indeed,  attempt  to  display  his  subtility  and  deftness  by 
writing  short  stories  about  nothing.  Every  one  of  his  tales  contains  an  episode, 
not  necessarily,  but  usually,  a  dramatic  episode  The  first  in  the  present  collec- 
tion, better  known  as  "  La  Maison  du  Chat-qui-pelote,"  is  really  a  short  novel. 
It  has  all  the  machinery,  all  the  interest,  all  the  detail  of  a  regular  story.  The 
difference  is  that  it  is  compressed  as  Balzac  only  could  compress ;  that  here  and 
there  important  events,  changes,  etc.,  are  indicated  in  a  few  powerful  lines  instead 
of  being  elaborated;  that  the  vital  points  are  thrown  into  strong  relief.  Take  the 
pathetic  story  of  "  Colonel  Chabert  "  It  begins  with  an  elaboration  of  detail. 
The  description  of  the  lawyer's  office  might  seem  to  some  too  minute.  But  it  is 
the  stage  upon  which  the  Colonel  is  to  appear,  and  when  he  enters  we  see  the 
value  of  the  preliminaries,  for  a  picture  is  presented  which  the  memory  seizes  and 
holds.  As  the  action  progresses,  detail  is  used  more  parsimoniously,  because  the 
tnise-efi-scette  has  already  been  completed,  and  because,  also,  the  characters  once 
clearly  described,  the  development  of  character  and  the  working  of  passion  can 
be  indicated  with  a  few  pregnant  strokes.  Notwithstanding  this  increasing 
economy  of  space,  the  action  takes  on  a  swifter  intensity,  and  the  culmination  of 
the  tragedy  leaves  the  reader  breathless. 

In  "  The  Atheist  s  Mass  "  we  have  quite  a  new  kind  of  story  This  is  rather 
a  psychological  study  than  a  narrative  of  action.  Two  widely  distinguished  char= 
acters  are  thrown  on  the  canvas  here,  —  that  of  tiie  great  surgeon  and  that  of  the 
humble  patron  ;  and  one  knows  not  which  most  to  admire,  the  vigor  of  the 
drawing,  or  the  subtle  and  lucid  psychical  analysis.  In  both  there  is  rare  beauty  of 
soul,  and  perhaps,  after  all,  the  poor  Auvergnat  surpasses  the  eminent  surgeon, 
though  this  is  a  delicate  and  difficult  question.  But  how  complete  the  little  story 
is;  how  much  it  tells;  with  what  skill,  and  in  how  delightful  a  manner!  'I'hen 
there  is  that  tremendous  haunting  legend  of  "  La  Grande  Breteche,"  a  story  which 
has  always  been  turned  into  more  languages  and  twisted  into  more  new  forms  than 
almost  any  other  of  its  kind  extant.  What  author  has  equalled  the  continuing 
horror  of  that  unfaithful  wife's  agony,  compelled  to  look  on  and  assist  at  the  slow 
murder  of  her  entrapped  lover?  .  .  Then  the  death  of  the  husband  and  wife,  — 
the  one  by  quick  and  fiercer  dissipation,  the  other  by  simple  refusal  to  live  longer, 
—  and  the  abandonment  of  the  accursed  dwelling  to  solitude  and  decav,  complete 
a  picture,  which  for  vividness,  emotional  force,  imaginative  power,  and  compre- 
hensiveness of  effects,  can  be  said  to  have  few  equals  in  its  own  class  of  fiction.  — 
Kansas  City  yournal. 

Sold  by  all  booksellers.  Mailed,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of  price,  by 
ike  publishers, 

ROBERTS    BROTHERS.  Bo.ston. 


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